“Fall” is approaching in Texas, which means it was 99 degrees outside today.
Technically, September has arrived. Somewhere, people are pulling sweaters out of storage, drinking pumpkin spice lattes, and decorating their front porches with adorable little pumpkins. Here in Texas, I’m still getting into the swimming pool because it’s too damn hot to sit next to it.
And the strange thing is, 99 degrees doesn’t even sound particularly alarming to me anymore. Texas has ruined me. I’ve lived here long enough that my internal thermometer is completely broken. Ninety degrees is pleasant. Ninety-five is warm. One hundred is hot, and that’s when we finally start complaining, although we will still stand in a parking lot having a twenty-minute conversation while doing it.
I’ve also completely lost perspective on distance. An hour away? That’s nearby. Dallas? That’s a drive. Houston? Also a drive. Apparently, people in other parts of the country cross state lines in the amount of time it takes us to get to the other side of town.
And then there’s HEB. It’s not a new word pronounced “heb.” We have enough made-up words around here. This isn’t one, lol. It’s H-E-B. Three letters, three syllables. And if you didn’t already know that, bless your heart.
I didn’t realize how emotionally attached a person could become to a grocery store until I started traveling and discovered that other people are apparently just out there buying groceries without an HEB. Where are the fresh tortillas? What is this thing you’re calling a butter tortilla, and why does it taste like sadness? And where is the home décor and fantastic seasonal section that I absolutely have to wander through every time I shop because apparently buying fruit and veggies also requires seeing what HEB has for Halloween?
I’ve also mastered one of the most useful phrases in the English language: “Bless your heart.” People outside Texas seem to think it means one thing. Oh, no. Bless their hearts. It can mean “I’m so sorry.” It can mean “That’s adorable.” It can mean “You poor thing.” And, deployed correctly, it can communicate an entire paragraph of thoughts that good manners prevent you from saying out loud. It’s less a phrase than a highly sophisticated communication system.
Texas has also given me completely unreasonable expectations about breakfast tacos, barbecue, Mexican food, queso, air conditioning, and parking spaces. I have cowboy boots in my closet, country music on my playlist, and very strong opinions about what does and does not qualify as good queso.
And “y’all” isn’t slang. It’s efficient. Frankly, I’m not sure why the rest of the English-speaking world hasn’t adopted it. And “all y’all” exists because sometimes greater specificity is required.
Somewhere along the way, none of this seemed particularly Texan anymore. It just became normal. My definition of hot changed. My definition of far changed. My standards for Mexican food became considerably more demanding. Lard is a requirement for refried beans, and yes, you absolutely can tell the difference. I say “y’all” without thinking about it, know exactly what “bless your heart” means by the way it was said, and can’t imagine living somewhere without an HEB nearby.
Then one September afternoon, I’m floating around in a swimming pool wearing a Texas hat because it’s still 99 degrees outside, and it occurs to me that none of this feels strange at all.
This is Texas, and I love it.
Bless my heart.
🤠 Charlotte