to be a country mouse
what does it mean to be a city girl?
There comes a time at the close of a semester where I begin to tire of Manhattan. The sirens outside my bedroom become too frequent, my coffee too expensive and the people too annoying. It’s normally when these things start to bother me that I know it’s time to head back home for however brief a time. As what will probably be my last summer at home faces me head on, I’ve started to ponder upon what makes a city and country girl.
Manhattan was the dream for so long, so I admit I rejected my hometown for a vast majority of my childhood. It has its fair share of problems, do not mistake that, but there’s something quintessential about growing up in a small town. I hated it growing up. I hated the closeness of everything, the country-ness of it — even though I hardly think it would qualify as country now. But I spent my formative years going to high school football games, sneaking off to buy peanut butter milkshakes at the literal ice cream shack down the road from the high school, and dancing in a one room studio or playing lacrosse at in a field.
Country music and I have always had a complicated relationship. I remember it always being on growing up. Me and my sister would come into the kitchen from the pool, dripping water on the floor as we wrapped towels around our midsections to set the table outside. My dad would play country radio on his phone as he barbecued outside, my mom putting everything me and my sister needed to take on the counter near the door. I would turn my nose up at it, begging my father to change it to Taylor Swift or Disney Channel. Me refusing to listen to country music became such a bit, such a part of myself that I carried it like a chip on my shoulder. I wasn’t part of this town, I didn’t like their music and I would leave it all in the dust one day.
I did in fact, leave it in the dust (as much as someone could ever do) and move to Manhattan. Every time I was homesick, I found myself reaching for the country music. I would lay on my twin XL with my headphones in, absorbing some Carrie Underwood and Luke Bryan and Tim McGraw and remember the simpler times of setting the table.
I don’t know if I could classify myself as a city girl or a country girl. I have my sparkly heels I wear out on the town every weekend, but I also have a fishing license. I’ll kill the bugs in my East Village dorm room. I’ve drank tequila more expensive than my rent, but prefer canned spiked seltzers. I tan in Central Park but I can whip the shit out of a lawn mower.
A few weekends ago, I visited my sister in the great city of Buffalo, New York. Besides nearly freezing my toes off and one traumatic email, we had a lovely time. Part of growing up is choosing to hang out with your siblings again because they don’t annoy you as much as they used to (she still annoys me, but it’s harder to hate her guts from six hours away). I trekked across the state to be her plus one to a two-night Luke Combs concert. (I feel obligated to tell everyone that the Buffalo Bills stadium carries pints of Corona blueberry seltzers and I am now a Bills fan because of it).
Luke Combs is good music. Only ONE of his songs reminds me of an ex boyfriend, and that’s really the best it gets these days. Any man that shotguns a Miller Lite on stage has guts, I suppose.
The thing I suppose I’m getting at here is that as much as I tried to repress it, the country is a part of me. And while I can’t get entirely behind the twang Southern hick part of it (ahem, Try That in A Small Town. I’m looking at you, Jason Aldean.), it’s a big part of how I was raised. Going to college has taught me that there’s some people who were not raised with the same ‘small-town values’ that myself and my hometown friends were raised with. Don’t get me wrong, there are assholes at home too, but it’s the small things that I notice. My parents raised me to say please and thank you, to call adults by Mr and Mrs, and to walk on the right side of the road. Amongst other things (like how to do my own laundry and clean a bathroom and do my dishes which one would think is a bare minimum activity). One of the biggest fights I’ve ever gotten into with my parents is when they put a location tracking app on my phone. I was furious — which in hindsight like where was I going that they didn’t already know of? Literally nowhere. You were 15. I digress.
It was a big blowout fight, and they threatened to not let me go see Avengers: Infinity War with my friends that night which everyone knows would’ve been disastrous because I didn’t want to have to wait another week to see it and for it to be spoiled for me. We reached an agreement somehow. I think it involved me picking up sticks in the backyard by myself.
I miss having grass and trees in my backyard. I miss the clean air. And yet, I know when I leave I will miss the city. I’ll miss my friends and having anything I could ask for within a 10 minutes walk, and going to a coffee shop in my pajamas and not seeing 4 people from high school. I will never be completely at home in Carmel, or Manhattan. But I think it’s a blessing in disguise. Having those two parts of me separate makes it easier to keep myself grounded. Slip off my heels and back into my ratty Converse.
I’m excited to be going home. Lake swimming and rope swings and roadtrips and karaoke night at Rosy’s and pool at McCarthy’s. But I’m also going to miss the city. Frolicking with friends and pizza and WSN production and studying at Bobst. I’m a few days out from leaving, so I’m packing and saying goodbye to friends and saying goodbye to the city. But I’m not quite dreading it. I even have another Luke Combs concert on the calendar.
For a really long time I thought it had to be one or the other. The small town diner waitress, or the college journalist in Manhattan. Now though, they’re friends. I won’t wear a cowboy hat, but I think I could be persuaded on cowboy boots. They’re heeled leather boots, after all. I can always get behind heeled leather boots.