There are many cultural traditions that define the Midwest.
Corn. Weather discussions that qualify as unpaid meteorology internships. The word “ope,” which functions as apology, greeting, and full personality.
But none compare to the most sacred, time-consuming, and wildly inefficient ritual of them all: The Midwest Goodbye.
For those unfamiliar, the Midwest Goodbye is not a goodbye. It is a slow, emotionally complex, multi-act performance that somehow requires standing, sitting, relocating, layering clothing, and multiple updates about road conditions no one asked for.
It begins, as all Midwestern sagas do, with one word: “Well…”
“Well” does not mean “I am leaving.” “Well” means “I am emotionally preparing to consider leaving at some point, but physically, I will remain here for at least 45 more minutes.” Everyone understands this.
No one moves. Because we are nothing if not committed to unnecessary process.
Next: the knee slap. The universal signal that departure has been discussed—but will not occur. This unlocks a brand-new round of conversation topics that were apparently forbidden while seated:
• The extended forecast
• A cousin who moved to Arizona (still controversial)
• Road conditions, regardless of actual conditions
• A restaurant that closed in 1998 but refuses to die
We have now made zero progress. We have, however, added 20 minutes.
Then: The Door. This is where the illusion peaks. People stand. Jackets go on. Keys appear. Someone says, “Okay we should probably let you go.” This changes absolutely nothing.
Instead, we begin a fully formed second visit. Standing. At the door. Because sitting would imply efficiency.
Topics now escalate:
• Local politics (casual, obviously)
• The school district
• A medical history no one requested
• A recipe no one will make
Eventually, someone attempts authority: “Alright, we really should go.” This has the same impact as a suggestion box no one checks. In fact, it usually triggers another story—longer, less relevant, and somehow unavoidable.
And then… the final boss: The Driveway. Car doors open. Engines start. You think this is it. It is not.
People are now leaning into vehicles, continuing conversations through open windows about topics that could absolutely wait—like someone’s schedule next Thursday. You will stand there. In the cold. In the heat. In aggressively average Midwest weather.
Talking.
Because leaving quickly would be socially alarming.
Eventually—possibly under different lighting conditions—the departure occurs. Waves are exchanged. “Drive safe” is delivered like a binding contract. The car pulls away at approximately 3 mph, because speed would be disrespectful. The door closes.
“Well that was nice.”
Of course it was. You spent more time leaving than visiting. And yet—no one questions it. No one says, “What if we just left?”
Because we all understand the rules. You do not exit a Midwestern home. You perform your exit.
And if you didn’t discuss the weather at the door, the driveway, and once while holding your keys but making no forward progress—did you even leave?