Jennie Smash

My friend Meredith and I walk around Jamaica Pond after work, whenever I’m feeling too lazy to go to the gym and have a proper workout. We don’t burn many calories, but we do get to see baby ducks and pug dogs and toddlers all dressed up in funny outfits and happy couples and gnarly homeless people, and this one time I totally saw a lady give her dog a handjob. Okay, that happened when I was getting ice cream with Becca one afternoon, but I couldn’t help throwing it in.

My point is that this walk around the pond is about as close to the country as I like to get. I’ve had occasion to think of this recently, because my aunt and uncle, who mean well, keep inviting me out to the Berkshires.

“Come out to the country!” They say. “It’s beautiful! We’ll go hiking! We’ll go fishing!”

And I hem and haw and make excuses and try to bribe them to come into the city by promising to take them to a Red Sox game.This afternoon, during my walk in the not-country with Meredith, she demanded to know why I was so opposed to going to the Berkshires to see my uncle and aunt.

“It’s the Berkshires, you know,” I told her. “It’s the country.” She looked at me strangely.

“I don’t want to go to the country,” I explained. “There are no people in the country. That’s why I live in the city. I hate the fucking country. If it’s so great, why isn’t there anyone there?”

Later in the evening, I had the same conversation with my mother, and she pointed out that I like going to the beach.

“That’s the country, isn’t it?” She said. “It’s outdoors.”

“Mom,” I said. “I like going to the Cape. The Cape is like Route 66 or something. Every ten feet you can stop and get drunk. Or play miniature golf.”

Now that’s my idea of the country.