Charmy? Smarmy.

Florida is losing its charm. Although I say “losing”, it’s never really been there. So let me start over.

What am I doing here?

When 9/11 turned my life on its ear, the things that I thought were important no longer were. I packed up a truck and drove my stuff down to south Florida.

I thought I’d get a place by the beach, with a hammock and a palm tree, and sell my soul for some sunshine. Perhaps I’d be a different person. I’d have a quiet job, an easy commute, and I’d spend time with my parents while I still could. I’d have a tan.

The reality was that the construction industry in south Florida was booming. People moving down from the North could afford a new place with a pool, and a gym, and landscaping. I rented a manicured box that looked really nice on the website, but had paper-thin walls and cheap fixtures. Rents were going up from all the new transplants that could afford to pay more, but salaries were a joke. I now had a car, insurance, and fuel to deal with, instead of a Metrocard. HR departments would not be the first to hire me in Florida, so I wound up waitressing at a Danish restaurant for four months.

You know who the worst waitress in the world is? Me.

Although I did find out that there is a very fine line in waitressing, where you have to find the perfect ratio of treating people like crap and getting a bigger tip. You can’t be unpleasant, just surly. Surly brings it in. I don’t know if it’s fear, or a latent S&M interest, or customer insecurity, but the ruder I was with customers, the bigger the tip. But in the grand scheme of things, I could really live without this knowledge.

Then I met a guy from Oregon with beautiful blue eyes. Nice arm muscles. I imagined him doing all sorts of outdoorsy things, like rappelling and camping. While I don’t know a crampon from a tampon, the outdoorsy Oregon thing was appealing. Blueberries. Trees. I bet he smelled like pine.

Three years later, he didn’t smell like pine, and I’m a single mom. That’s ok, though. I’m ecstatic about the child. I had given up on pregnancy. Many had tried, none had succeeded. (I should really needlepoint that into a nice pillow, or something).

And I just found a two-bedroom apartment close to my job, close to the highway to get my kid to the best daycare, and relatively close to my parents. The rent is half my salary. Close, close, close. I’m sick of close. I want something different.

I miss season changes. The weather in Florida is like being in a Vegas casino with no windows and no clocks. You forget there’s a universe out there. It’s 90 degrees today, and the A/C at home is on 72. I miss autumn leaves, and jackets, and crisp air, and scarves. I miss my boots. There’s something about the North, and hot cups of tea, and a solemnity that comes from a climate that’s not sunny and 80 degrees year-round. There’s an intellect that lives in areas where you have to compete for jobs and prove yourself to succeed that you just don’t find in an area where people move to so they can live by the beach.

I miss smart people.

I’m not saying they’re not out there, they just seem to be more concentrated in other areas. Now that I’m thinking about who I am, and where I’m going, and where I’m taking my daughter, and the possibility of having a future partner, I realize I can’t stay here. South Florida doesn’t reflect my ideals.

I’m not sure what my ideals are, I just know they don’t smell like coconut.