Texas to a T

I'm flying down southbound I-35 at some late hour in my F-350 Super Duty. Texas music is blasting on the stereo. The highway splits, and I take the upper deck. The city lights stretch out before me. The skyline has changed a lot, but the capitol building is still prominent. I'm thinking about the last 24 hours: last night's home-cooked, locally-grown dinner at a ranch in the Hill Country, breakfast this morning at Upper Crust Bakery, an afternoon of kayaking on Town Lake, a cool shower and a long nap in the A/C on a 100+ degree day, drinks and laughs tonight with old friends, dinner at East Side Cafe.

I don't know what it is. As illogical, shallow, pointless as it may seem, as utterly right-wing conservative as it may sound, I love being a Texan. I really do. I love driving a big-ass truck. I love wearing a cowboy hat and boots. I love the sweltering heat, country music, the Texas flag and roadside ditches filled with bluebonnets. I love the pride Texans have in their state. I love my red-neck, fishing-obsessed step-dad, I love the accent that my native-Texas friends have and I truly love the city of Austin. I love these limestone hills, the big-haired women, the scrub oaks, the urban cowboys, the spring-fed rivers. I love the friends I have here and I love the feeling of being home.

Maybe it's the sense of belonging. Maybe it's just plain old familiarity. Can't say. All I know is what I feel, and it feels good. Maybe there are some good things in life that don't have to make sense.