Those who know me know there’s certainly nothing Texan about me. My hair isn’t big and you won’t see me rocking rhinestones. I never listened to country music. I’ve never owned a Bible and I’d only ever seen cowboys on Halloween.
I’m a New England city girl. I prefer hopping on the T to go Downtown or walking to the corner shop to buy groceries and the neighborhood coffee shop for news. Relying on Uber twice a month to travel 5 miles to the nearest grocery store that isn’t a 711 isn’t what I call convenient. (And frustratingly my only option is Walmart – and not one of those almost bearable Walmarts, one of those trashy, ‘get-me-outta-here-before-I-even-walk-through-the-doors’, Walmarts.)
I’m used to humid Summers spent on the water, sailing Hobie Cats on Boston Harbor, crisp, stunning Falls with golden leaves and Pumpkin Spiced Lattés held between mittened hands, and Winters that usually dish out at least 1 decent blizzard a year. (Today’s current forecast: sunny and 75 degrees. It’s January 27th.)
I made the move down here 4 months ago after a 6-month stint in DC where, along with 6 other women I crammed into a 1bedroom/1bathroom crashpad, on a cot on the floor and hair products and clothes thrown everywhere; Meanwhile, still struggling to afford anything in one of the Nation’s most expensive cities.
Now, I’m in Dallas/Fort Worth, in an area I can surprisingly afford (away from everything except the airport) in an apartment with enough space to accommodate an actual bed and enough privacy to walk around naked.
Though I still don’t have any furniture I find that’s only a small, unnecessary detail. It’s much more fun to eat on the floor anyway.
It’s not perfect and I’m still figuring things out, but I’ve gotten myself a pair of cowgirl boots and I’m calling this home for a while.