To Iowa: I'm Sorry

Iowa, I'm sorry.

For years I've written off your people, cursed your winter-torn roads, pitied your empty shopping malls, lamented your land locked-ness, and readily given you the title of "The Land of Missed Opportunity." I made up my mind that you had nothing to offer me; you and I, we simply wanted different things. But for years, it turns out I was wrong.


You see, Iowa, I had to go experience other things. I wanted to be a part of a culture that Rand McNally wouldn't describe as "remarkably homogenous." I wanted – needed – to smell the sea. I craved the scent of curry wafting through the air between bistros. I yearned for immaculate concert halls, centuries-old cathedrals, and buildings that touched the sky. I needed to throw on a t-shirt on a December morning and go for a run in the hills. I wanted to have something to write about. And I found those things, Iowa. And it was grand.


But it turns out, Iowa, that everyone else is going to the beach, too. It turns out that people being "remarkably homogenous" has everything to do with who you choose to be around. It turns out that too much curry is just plain nauseating. It turns out that buildings that touch the sky can't help but hide it from view, too. And as for running in the green, rolling hills of a coastal winter, I did that maybe once.


I forgot what else it is you don't have, Iowa. You don't have city after city, miles of rolling concrete underneath your stationary tires, regardless of what hour of the day it is. You don't have cafes that only sell coffee and $4 toast as part of the next "artisan trend." And while people that call your land home might often look the same, that's just the signature curve of a Midwestern smile.


You have quite the calming air about you, don't you, Iowa? The ability to convince anyone and everyone that it'll all be okay. You never fail to reassure us that we'll make it through, that we shouldn't be worried if we're "coming out on top" because there is no top. The Jones aren't calling – the open road is. And there are miles and miles of it. Miles and miles of open road, winding and unblemished, full of greens, burgundies, and golds just waiting to be conquered.



What I didn't understand before is that to live in Iowa is to live an exordium – to live at the beginning of what could be anything. Life there is douce: a word I recently learned means "quiet" or "serene," but if you thought "sweet," well, it's that, too. To live in Iowa is to look outside and see the world in front of you, free and full of opportunity, just as it should be. And it is that now which I crave, Iowa. And I know nowhere else to find it but in you.


So wake up in the morning with me, Iowa. Maybe we'll lounge in bed together, listening to your thunder. Maybe we'll throw the windows open and take in your summer breeze. Or maybe we'll go out onto the patio with a steaming cup of coffee and just breathe each other in. And it'll be beautiful.

...You Had Me at Froyo.

Dear Yogurtland,

We can no longer live like this. I cannot bury these emotions under your creamy "Real Flavors"® anymore. In an effort to preserve our relationship, I have a few questions and comments that demand immediate answering:

1) Why are you so delicious? I've known that there's cocaine in the Filet-o-Fish for a while now, but would you stoop so low? I think not. You're above that. You don't need illegal stimulants to make your product so addictive. I've read the fine print. I've read your terms and conditions and your ingredient labels. Unless you're pulling the wool over everyone's eyes, this addiction is only in my head. Do you want me to question my mental stability? Regardless of your answer, the original question still stands: why can't I quit you?

All I need is 173 days, Yogurtland. Then your unlimited cup will be mine.

2) Why have you not recognized my patronage? I visit you 1.4 times a week. And yet – YET – somehow you continue to maintain the facade that I did not win that trip to Puerto Rico. Statistically speaking, how is this possible? How many customers do you have that are as loyal as I? How many adult women find refuge in the brick-and-mortar experience of your product, present unpersuaded by tiny hands and high-pitched whining voices? How many of your customers struggle with diets solely because you exist? Not many. If this doesn't make me a super-mega platinum member worthy of your limitless cup, then I don't know what does.


I have accrued 175 points in 2 days short of three months. That's 175 ounces of your froyo in 88 days. That boils down to 1.9886 ounces of froyo per day. Sure, I buy for my friends, too, but it's because I'm a good person (and I want their points). How is this not worthy of some sort of corporate recognition?

3) Why have you not fixed that typo on your mobile app to which I so kindly alerted you? Rest assured most companies would lose my patronage at the sight of misspelling the word "raspberry" (especially to a company that holds said fruit so core to their existence), but I make an exception for you. You're welcome. You're worth it to me. I'm not proud and I'm not happy, but relationships require work. I'm putting in my half. Where's yours?

Not okay at all, Yogurtland.

4) Why have you not hired me yet? I filled out my application weeks ago. That typo I spotted that proves you need me is still there, illustrating that not only have you not given my application its due, but you don't know what's good for you, either. I. I am good for you. I breathe, sweat, and cry your product. I risk diabetes 1.4 times a week for your product. What other qualifications need I have?

Proof that I even endure mockery for you, Yogurtland. Mockery. Subtle, yes, but still mockery.

Well, Yogurtland, I've had my say. If you would be so kind as to address my concerns, you know where to find me. Just go to whichever Yogurtland of yours runs out of Ghirardelli caramel sauce and Pecans & Praline faster than any other location and I'll be there within 72 hours. Statistically speaking.