Not red. Not pink. Green. Because loving Ohio isn't a romance, it's a condition, and the color perfectly matches your face after four helpings of chili poured over spaghetti and a gas station cappuccino at 11pm somewhere off the interstate.
Green also covers the rest of it: the cornfields that go on for nine hours, the lawn you mowed in February because it hit 68 degrees before snowing that same night, and the specific shade of envy everyone else gets when they find out you can buy a house here for the price of a studio apartment out west. Three seasons in one Tuesday, highway construction as a permanent lifestyle, and somehow you'd still never leave. That's love, baby. Sickly, weirdly loyal, slightly nauseous love.
Built from soft, substantial fabric that survives tailgate lots, basement parties, and the laundry pile you ignored for nine days. Holds its shape, holds the print, and gets comfier every single wash.
