Homesick for Ice Hockey

It all started when I asked the waiter at Buffalo Wild Wings to keep the television on the hockey game. After all, these were the NHL playoffs! My sister-in-law laughed, my husband covered his face, and the waiter paused for a moment to see if I was joking. In that moment, I realized how different the north and south really are. Or, at least, for sports fans.

I am from New York. Asking for a hockey game up there is pretty much a default. Here in Texas, asking for that game broadcast was an invitation to be branded as "The Yankee" for the rest of my evening. As if I needed another reminder of how far away from the only place I've called home I really am. I married my husband on May 25th of this year, and wouldn't have changed a thing...except for possibly his orders from the Army. We are stationed here at Joint Base San Antonio (or Fort Sam Houston, if you will)... a good thousand miles away from my hometown and a good three hours from the Mexican border.

In the past three weeks, I've gone from sweatpants and long sleeves to the stereotypical shorts and tank tops. Which, for those who know me, could testify that I'd rather live in my air conditioning and possibly develop ice on my toenails than show any skin. Maybe that's why I think every other female in this town owns nothing but "booty shorts," because all I see are legs, everyday. I suppose the only real cause for complaint is when those legs move and a female finds it appropriate to show all of San Antonio a glimpse of her butt cheeks. There is no politically correct way to say that.

The idea that a simple request was taken so jokingly to me was a real eye-opener. A clue that I wasn't going to be able to live as me down here without making some changes, or adapting. And fast. I've gone from honking at people crossing the street to letting them cross. Blocking intersections to stopping sooner to let someone else out of a street. Finding my own twists on the saying "southern hospitality," because yes, I have a stereotype too. In New York, if you fall on the sidewalk someone is going to step over you because chances are they were late for work. In Texas, people will run to help you, even if it means running late for their own schedule. 

I've come to realize the key to making myself a life here won't be to stick my nose in the air, because as much as I take pride in being from the greatest city in the world, Texans think they're from the best darn country. (Honestly, there are t-shirts that say it in every store, and a Texan will proudly inform you they are the only state allowed to hang their state's flag above the American flag.)

Perhaps a little bit of both worlds, and a meshing of the two egos, might make for one fabulous friendship. 

To a native Texan, I just might be that Yank with the New York license plates, but don't judge me on that. Inside the car you keep cutting off in traffic, you'll find a kind heart with just as much love for sweet tea as you have. Wave and I can promise you I'll wave back, and not with my middle finger.