We haven’t done anything particularly Florida-ish now that we’re here. We haven’t consumed one drink sporting an umbrella or walked hand-in-hand along the beach dressed all in white like those people of a certain age you see in ads for hearing aids, or perhaps laxatives.
We are ready for life here, having stocked the refrigerator, the wine rack, and put out the porch furniture. And we’re already settling into our roles as pseudo-Southerners. The temperatures are hovering in the low 70s and upper 60s during the day, and instead of the shorts and t-shirts we would have been wearing in the same temps at home, we’ve grabbed our sweatshirt jackets like the locals. Clothing at an area supermarket on a 65ish day could run from parkas (locals), to tank tops and flip-flops (tourists in denial).
Today was my first trip of the season for yoga at the YMCA. Last spring I came home with 10 pounds more of me, so I need to get proactive fast. Apparently I wasn’t the only one. I had to park in a field in back of the facility, grabbing the very last spot, and walking past at least 10 cars circling fruitlessly. They even had a guy in a golf cart offering rides back to the building, which, if you ask me, canceled the whole purpose of being there in the first place.
The Season is upon us (And yes, I know I’m one more of the invaders). The roads are filled, and anyone wanting to eat out should probably adopt the eat-before-5 philosophy if they plan to get into a restaurant. That old saw about retired people eating early has nothing do to with age. It’s just the only way you can get a meal around here.