Cowboy boots? Check.
DKNY cut-off jean skirt? Check.
Burberry string bikini? Check.
Four bottles of Chablis in my laptop case? Check.
I'm flying to Birmingham (for the 3rd time) to be with a man--a Southern man. A very Southern man, mind you. He was my 4th grade date to the Camp Beckwith summer dance and, somehow, we reconnected after fifteen years. The last person I imagined meeting on my Florida summer vacation was a college-football lovin,' NASCAR watchin,' Appalachicola oysters slurpin,' handsome, kind, generous man from my pre-pubescent past.
But, I did.
And, something's come over me.
Is it the damn Alabama heat... or is this love?
I am a Southerner in the City, an aging debutante, a small town girl cursed with big city aspirations. My grandfather says that I’m at the cusp of feminine failure—I’m as old as a bottle of prime Tennessee whiskey (aged 25 years) and still single. I need to “get on home” and find a nice Southern boy—a doctor, maybe an insurance salesman. At this, I dig in my heels and set out to date every inappropriate man in Manhattan…
No comments:
Post a Comment