There is just something about a cowboy. Tight butt in wrangler jeans. Cowboy boots. A slow easy gait that belies the speed and strength required to rope a calf in eight seconds.
There aren’t enough cowboys in this sweet, Southern town I live in. I think we should start a program. An import business. This girl needs a cowboy.
I want a sexy man in cowboy boots to waltz me around the dance floor while George Strait serenades us.
I want to two-step until I’m giggling and breathless.
Where have all the cowboys gone?
My sweet friend is married to a real life cowboy. Every time I’m around them, listening to his Texas drawl, it makes me homesick for Texas.
It reminds me of slow waltzes around huge dance floors in Texas dance halls. Quick two-steps, spinning around until I’m dizzy.
I wonder how different my life would be if I’d picked the cowboy, instead of the Marine.
I wonder if I’d be living in West Texas on a ranch instead of the Lowcountry, South Carolina.
Maybe I’d be the Pioneer Woman, instead of Yoga Girl.
I wonder if the dating sites have a checkmark for Cowboy? It seems like you can pick everything else.
I’ll have to check that out and let you know how it works for me.