Welcome to small town life

This morning, I stepped outside in a dreamy attempt to embrace nature—you know, birds chirping, dew on the grass, that whole Pinterest morning routine vibe. I was maybe 30% awake, eyelids still at half-mast. And just as I was about to feel one with the universe—RRRRRRRRRAAAAAHHHHHHRRRRRR—a 4-wheeler rips past my house like it’s trying to win a NASCAR trophy for “Most Annoying Rural Alarm Clock.” I didn’t need coffee after that. My soul left my body and came back with attitude.

Welcome to small town life.

I live in a charming little place with 4,000 people. Yes. Four. Thousand. That’s about the population of one aisle at Target on a Saturday, in case you're wondering. It's small enough that your neighbor knows what time you flushed your toilet last night. You go outside and everyone greets you like you're the main character in a drama you never auditioned for.

And let’s talk about the gossip. Oh, the sacred glue that holds this town together. It’s Olympic-level. I somehow end up at the center of it all without trying. I could be out buying toilet paper and somehow end up in a scandal I didn’t even know I was part of.

Latest gossip? Someone in the next town over embezzled money. Not even our town, mind you. And yet? Two months later, it’s still front-page news in every verbal newsletter—AKA Karen at the post office. Yes, it’s illegal. Yes, it’s shady. But at this point, I’m like, “Build a monument and move on.”

Oh, and don’t get me started on the dress code here. If you show up somewhere looking put together—lipstick, maybe a belt—you get The Look. That “Who do you think you are?” stare. As if you betrayed the sweatpants cult. Dressing up in this town is an act of rebellion. I’m practically a fashion anarchist.

Also, there are as many bars as there are churches. You sin on Friday, repent on Sunday, and run into the same people in both places. It’s a cycle. A rhythm. A lifestyle. You can stumble out of one and into the other. God and gin, all in one block.

Let’s not forget: people here have fully given up on themselves. No skincare. No brushing their hair. But oh—do they care about you. They’ll analyze your outfit, your tone of voice, your grocery list like it’s a cryptic clue in a true crime documentary.

Anyway, I love it here. Sort of. Small town life is a sitcom and I’m apparently in every episode. I just wish I had better writers.

Until tomorrow’s drama,

Ana