Sex and the Midwest: Finding Glamour and Glitz, Small-Town Style

How I Found My Own Fairytale Amongst Cows and Corn

Carrie Bradshaw probably wouldn't be caught dead here.  At least not for long.  Looking outside my window, there are no cabs, no crowds of pedestrians hustling and bustling, no constant sounds of honking and sirens.  I can't walk from my 40-story apartment to the nearest Barney's.  In fact, Wal-Mart is even a jaunt (to walk at least).

Truth is, I hear it over and over again: "Why would anyone in their right mind want to live in the midwest?"  Sure, we don't have tall skyscrapers, celebrities haunting the nearest Starbucks, or anywhere you can order Chinese takeout at 4 am.  But what we do have, constant subtle scent of manure aside, is a certain something that only the midwest can offer.  Something real, something modest, something innocent:  We have simplicity.  

It's a feeling you get when you enjoy your fried food on a stick at the state fair.  There's nothing quite like watching some beat-up derby cars mangling each other's metal for fun or watching a band you completely forgot about play their hearts out like it's the first time they've been on stage.  Sure it took them 30 years past their prime to get here, but hey, here they are.

Around here, we don't throw on our Vivienne Westwood dress from this season's latest collection to mingle at a cocktail party.  We don't need to.  We have class of our own.  It may come in the form of Faded Glory and Wranglers, but it's class nonetheless. 

I grew up here in the Midwest.  I found my husband here, and we had our children here.  I wouldn't have it any other way.  We have to get creative to entertain ourselves (ever heard of cowtipping?  Google it!), but when we do, it usually ends up giving us stories that we can tell our grandchildren.  So yes, I would rather take an impromptu trip down a dark country road at 1 am to look at the stars than spend $10 for one beer at a stuffy, crowded bar.  I'd much rather shovel cookie dough mixed with soft serve from my local Dairy Queen down my throat on a hot summer afternoon than fork through some dried lettuce at the newest trendy restaurant, pretending to be stuffed.  And I'd much rather rock a pair of Pumas than a pair of Jimmy Choos.  And I do.  For real.

So keep your glitzy, flashy form of glamour, Carrie Bradshaw.  I'll keep mine.  Cows and all.