This weekend, I am visiting the “Deep South” for the very first time. All in all, it’s splendid. The houses are sprawling and beautiful, the weather is great, and the people are quite friendly. Nevertheless, this trip has convinced me that I could never, EVER live here.
Food: Food and I are best friends. We enjoy each other’s company more than the recommended three times a day, and we have an agreement that if I promise to chew gently, it won’t direct itself to my thighs. The food in the south, however, has a mind of its own. Something about frying it breaks the pact, and I feel it seeping into my arms, making them jiggle as I wave. No- southern food and I are not getting along. And I am going to have a wardrobe that is not very happy about it when I get home.
Fashion: I don’t know what this phenomenon about dressing for Easter all year round is here. I feel like I’m in a really terrible claymation movie with giant rabbits who turn all the little people into pastel-colored clones. I am getting a fair amount of death stares for wearing immodest neck-lines that are not of a brand name or delicate hue. I even wore red lipstick last night (gasp!) and I am pretty sure some girl was mouthing “hussy” at me for it.
Beauty: Okay, I love my hair. It’s long and malleable and easy to flip around as a casual mating call. It’s also useful for flipping in the face of people I don’t like. My hair loves Texas, but it hates SC. I can tell because it poofs up like one of those lizards when it’s angry the second I step outside. Ready for attack. Quadrupled in size. Disgusting.
Sex: If I lived here, I would never have any. Never, never. You may think it’s because I’d be as wide as Paula Deen with murderous hair and an unconventional wardrobe, but that’s not all. I am going to be painfully honest at the risk of offending someone: the men here make me vomit in my mouth a little bit. They all have the same weird side-parted haircut. I just can’t sleep with a man who reminds me of my grandfather. They each wear a button-down tucked into their belted pants (which seem to only be sold in khaki or nantucket red down here). If they don a blazer, it’s navy and the exact same brand as their friend’s who is standing next to them. Originality at its finest. Last night, I saw one guy with a light pink button-down tucked into the nantucket red pants. I nearly died of fashion crisis. How are these men getting any?
Anyway, that’s my little rant. South Carolina and I were sadly not made for one another. Time to go back to my beautiful Texas where the men wear jeans and have sexy tousled hair. Home, sweet home.