Under my skin

I fear that Texas is beginning to change me. We’ve been here more than two years now, so I guess it was inevitable that my Lone Star resistance would wear down after awhile. And it’s nothing too obvious, no use of y’all or wearing of a 10-gallon hat. But I might be slowly sliding toward those things.
I have developed a taste for crushed red pepper. You know, the little red flakes? I never understood their purpose before, but a couple weeks ago I found myself shaking them onto my pizza. And though every ounce of my Midwestern self doesn’t want to admit this, the pepper improved the pizza.
More worrying than the pepper though, is my recent fondness for Lyle Lovett music. When I heard Lyle was playing in town, I actually suggested to Greg that we attend the concert. Greg responded by looking at me as though I had suggested we go sky-diving. Fun for him, but a clear indication that I had lost my mind. I scrapped the idea upon seeing the price of the tickets, but I still turn up the radio when I hear Lyle.
I always hated country music, but I don’t think one can appreciate it until she has lived in the South. It is just too darn hot to listen to rock or pop or anything that makes you want to dance. You need the type of music that can be listened to while sitting on the porch drinking a tall glass of lemonade and gently bobbing your head. I know the rest of the country thinks Texans are a bunch of lunatics, but they act the way they do for a reason. The heat is frying their brains, and they are just trying to slow the process down as best they can.