Day Six: Mourning Thoughts

Day Six: Early Mourning

‘Tis almost that time, folks. One more day of Jensen Beach and Hutchinson Island remains before we depart for the one day stay in Orlando. After that, home and real life awaits.

Coffee will no longer be sipped while sitting on a sixth floor deck, overlooking the surf and commuting with the pelicans and other cool birds. Instead it will be drunk from a giant travel mug while planted behind my desk. Showers will no longer be lackadaisical, when-I’m-ready affairs, returning to a rigidly timed routine. Breakfast and lunches will be packed cold cuts, no longer the delicious leftover fare prepared by others. The scent of ocean spray, the intensely warming sun, the ever ready pool and hot tub shall be replaced with falling leaves, autumn chill and…ah, screw it, I’m going to screw up our last day here if I keep this shit up.

It’s time to dwell on the few things that irk, out of mental self-defense more than anything else.

What I won’t miss:

1)      Taxes; as a New Hampshirite, we have taxes and I believe in paying my due, but vacationland has raised the stakes to greedy levels.

2)      Traffic circles: What the hell is up with that? Haven’t traffic lights been around a while now? Do you know what a pain it is to try to spin around these things, looking for a street sign that is, 50% of the time, non-existent while avoiding getting t-boned by a jeep jacked up to the lower ionosphere?

3)      Margaritaville: Okay, okay. I get it. Nothing supposedly sells a vacation retreat like the constant strains of an old fart pseudo beach-bum with 1.5 hits in thirty some years. But get real, folks. This guy makes Chris Isaak look like Elton John. I’ve had endure this leather skinned wrinkled anthem in reggae, elevator muzak, calypso, country and its repulsive original variation. Break it up. Someone go out and buy a Roy Orbison CD or something, will ya’?

4)      The parking space glare: This is restricted to where we are staying, so in the defense of native Floridians, they are completely excused. No, this is directed at the bitter pool vultures that stake out one of three tables by the pool since 7 am and look at me like felon when I get a good spot in the carport. Why do you people give a shit? By the salt encrusted windshields you’re vehicles sport, it doesn’t look like your cars have moved since the Bush administration.

5)      That bitter envy: I’m a lucky guy. I married a woman that easily looks 10-15 younger than her actual age. For this area, that means it looks like we just graduated High School. My wife is a quiet type that manages to carry herself with a certain aristocratic grace, accented by a heavy collection of jewelry. I like the look. I like it a lot. Unfortunately, around here, her looks have come with a few snide remarks spoken under the breath of blue haired ex-receptionists while their over-nagged hubbies are checking out her chest.  Another week here and some fossil is going to wind up calling the hotel staff to get their false choppers and 75 pound handbag out of the bottom of the Jacuzzi.

Okay, that’s enough venting for today. Instead I will focus on bronzing up flesh a bit more, breathing in the slat air and desperately trying to keep this relaxed state of mind in place for a few weeks when I go back to reality. Other than my self-indulgent travelogue, I haven’t read a blessed thing. Hopefully the creative batteries are recharges as well.

This is your intrepid explorer, signing off for another day.