Tuesday, April 11, 2017

This Isn't Texas


In 2015, I met an incredible man-online.   He was everything I wanted in a partner, except for the fact that I lived in Texas and he in Florida.  He flew out, and then I did, and so on, until I decided to move to Florida in December 2016. 

I packed up my worldly goods and loaded them in a rental truck, and M flew in to drive me to my new home in the Sunshine State.  We were delayed by his lost luggage (thanks, United), but got underway on a Sunday evening.  After driving for a few hours (me leading in my car; him following in the rental truck), we stopped for the night, still in Texas.  

The next morning, we left early and made the obligatory stops at Bucee’s and Whataburger and crossed the Sabine River before noon.  Firmly ensconced in Louisiana, it was time for a gas stop.  At this point I was still leading, and I took an exit for a gas station.  Accustomed to the Lone Star State, I exited and went through the stop sign, intending to turn into the gas station, but there was no entrance and I was forced back onto the interstate.  A few miles later, I successfully entered a gas station and M began to tease me about missing the previous stop.  I told him there was no way to get to the gas station from the access road.  He informed me, “this isn’t Texas,” to which I replied with a quizzical head tilt.  He continued, “You can’t turn into the gas station from the on-ramp.  There aren’t access roads here, although they are brilliant urban planning.”  And I’ll be damned, he’s right about that.  Apparently access roads are exclusive to Texas, because I haven’t seen any since.

M continues to remind me that I’m not in Texas anymore, like when I want to burn the leaf pile in the front yard or shoot the pesky armadillo who is uprooting my lilies.  On my first day at my new school, I was surprised to learn that the kids in Florida don’t recite the pledge to the Texas flag.  The other day, I asked him why the closest convenience store doesn’t have Blue Bell ice cream, and his (slightly snarky) reply was, “This isn’t Texas.”


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