On occasion, I address something of relative importance.
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This weekend I will:
Return to the lush, verdant, oceanview paradise of my childhood…
and realize that nostalgia has a funny way of omitting the parts of a place that are less than desirable such as…
- Young mothers wearing sweatpants and t-shirts emblazoned with ”Wildcat Cheerleader 1998”, screaming after their 3 toddler-sized sons while standing in the middle of Target, looking hopeless, helpless, and bereft of all vestiges of youth and happiness. They stand in the center of Housewares, surrending themselves to this new life that they do not yet recognize. They then recognize you, make stilted, terribly awkward conversation about the joys of motherhood, and then furiously drive their shopping cart off while yelling “JARRRREEEED, GET BACK HERE!” You do not feel smug, but come to the realization that this is the unhappiness that would have been yours had you stayed. You wonder if you would trade it for your current unhappiness of being broke, disillusioned, and outrageously jaded with no prospects of owning anything in the near future. You exit the sliding doors in an unexpected fog, thinking to yourself that it is a tough call.
- I-95 traffic
- Rebel flags on vehicles, t-shirts, baby onesies etc.
- A sincere love of Jimmy Buffet
- Overworked, miserable denizens of both genders with Slim-Jim colored tans, minimum clothing in garish hues, either smoking or spitting chew with contempt for their lot in life, the summer heat, and probably you.
- Incessant radioplay of AC/DC that results in you deciding that you’ve changed your mind: You aren’t about to rock after all.
Realizing that when I overly romanticize this particular location, I blind myself to its depressive attributes and come off like a willfully ignorant fool, I will then drink an excessive amount of Rum Runners and anything else with a synthetic taste of beachy hedonism…
and subsequently engage in sundry forms of profligacy included but not limited to:
The consumption of dozen upon dozen of raw oysters
Downing shots with strangers—the majority being married couples who are into “swinging” in tandem with painkillers
While at a tacky tiki bar, I will dance to a bad cover band’s version of Collective Soul’s “Shine”, or if the drinks are particular strong, Train’s ”Soul Sister”
With a middle-aged man in a Tommy Bahama button-down and a pair of dad Jorts
I will also:
Wear the bathing suit equivalent of David Lee Roth leggings…
while I coast on a pontoon boat with nine of my closest friends…
and listen to CSN’s “Southern Cross” repeatedly until…
someone threatens to throw me overboard and quickly changes it to either our college anthem, “Freedom ‘90”, a Cash Money rap artist, or the acceptable default of Guns-n-Roses
Finally I will:
Enter a biker bar and find the most grizzled, fearsome-looking brother in the room. Requirements: a gumball-shaped gut, a handlebar moustache the color of soiled Maltese fur, and a strident laugh that rattles like an old motor. I will then ask if I can take a ride on the back of his Harley…
I will then ride off into the sunset unconcerned about anything that might transpire after this weekend…
including the fact that I will turn 30 in a matter of weeks.
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weezeemee reblogged this from foryourpleasure
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dyfl said:
I didn’t know you were from Florida — though you’re from the East coast. Sorry about that. This is a pretty spot-on evocation of FL in all its “glories,” however.
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foryourpleasure posted this
