Collin County Named ‘Best Place to Live’—Because Apparently, Some People Enjoy Soul-Crushing Suburbia

Oh, joy. Another list has declared yet another Texas county the "best" place to live, and—shockingly—it’s not the one where I’ve already secured my spot in the HOA’s inner circle. Collin County? Really? I suppose if your idea of paradise is endless strip malls, cookie-cutter McMansions, and a Starbucks on every corner, then sure, it’s perfect. But let’s be honest—this ranking is just an elaborate conspiracy to make the rest of us feel bad about our perfectly acceptable, if slightly less manicured, cul-de-sacs.

First of all, who decided that "healthiest county" should be measured by gym memberships and kale smoothie availability? I’ll have you know, my neighborhood’s wine-and-whine book club is a form of cardio. And don’t even get me started on the "A+ for families" rating. Oh yes, nothing says "idyllic childhood" like being shuttled between soccer practice, Mandarin tutoring, and robotics camp in a Tesla. Meanwhile, my kids are thriving on a steady diet of screen time and Chick-fil-A, thank you very much.

And let’s talk about this so-called "dream suburbia lifestyle." Spacious? Manicured? Please. I’ve seen those HOA regulations—you’ll get fined if your grass is half an inch too tall or if your holiday decorations aren’t Pinterest-worthy. Meanwhile, my own HOA only lightly harasses me about my inflatable Halloween skeleton (which, for the record, stays up until Thanksgiving because I decide when the holidays start).

But the real kicker? The "C+ for cost of living." Oh, how quaint. Nothing says "affordable" like needing a six-figure salary just to afford a house with a backyard smaller than my neighbor’s ego. Meanwhile, I’m over here in my perfectly adequate county, where at least I can still pretend my property taxes aren’t slowly bankrupting me.

So congratulations, Collin County. You’ve won… whatever this is. Meanwhile, the rest of us will be over here, enjoying our slightly less prestigious but far more authentic lives—where the only rankings that matter are who brought the best charcuterie board to the neighborhood potluck.