Ya know what?
Escapism, given certain constraints, has it’s merits. Like, loads of merits and let’s just tuck the constraints somewhere we don’t have to look at them. ummK? You with me?
Miss Carol and me escaped the Little House of Horrors last week for a couple of days in Florida. Actually it was our anniversary and it was one of those biggies that scream you better do SOMETHING SPECIAL.
So we did.
Decades and centuries ago, back when airplanes still had propellors, Miss Carol and me moved to Boca Raton to get married and live out our lives in beachy breeziness.
We felt we had to move away mostly because Miss Carol’s family didn’t much like me at the time and because we figured Florida was the best place to escape to.
The move didn’t last but our marriage did.
So last week we blew back down to the scene of the crime and we spent the first night in the hotel in Boca that we honeymooned in.
And it was, umm, interesting?
Way back when, in the murky then, before cars had engines, we’d been told by countless well wishers that Florida was chock-a-block full of old people and, at the time, I was all, like, so? C’mon Miss Carol, we’re MOVING, WOOHOO!! And getting MARRIED!! OOH BABY, BABY!!
Silly me but we found out just how true it was. Old people suck. Especially really rich old people.
But I’d forgotten just how much they suck and how crotchety and shitty and just plain crappy mean old people can get when they’ve got lots and lots of retirement time on their hands to stew in their crappy old meanness.
And Boca Raton is FULL of ’em.
So we hung out and used the hotel room like rock stars and tried not to breathe in too much of the old people smells.
And then we bolted for South Beach.