I Can’t Move to Florida Because I Eat Dinner Too Late

Before the mouse took residence in Orlando, Florida, to me, it was a state filled with old people. Early-bird dinners, coconut patties, and gold squiggly pineapple necklaces are my childhood memories. Everything about Florida screamed last stop before the grave. 

Even after a trip to Disneyworld, I wasn’t swayed. The Magic Kingdom was like the Vatican, a separate entity stuck in the middle of the breeding grounds of senility. 

Spring break in Ft. Lauderdale did nothing to convince me. The strip of beach and hotels populated with girls gone wild and their drunk counterparts was another anomaly. At the time, I was visiting my ancient aunt and uncle, and they drove me down the main drag in their old-school Cadillac. It was a traumatic experience.  

Over the years, as my family grew, it was wonderful visiting my parents in Delray Beach. There is a funky main street with trendy bars and restaurants and a cool vibe.

It’s all a facade.

There is the biggest Chicos I have ever seen, reservations before 6 PM are always taken, and every car on the road is a non-Escalade Cadillac, Lincoln, or Mercury. Even the cars are dated.

The Times They Are a Changing

 I can read a census. The facts are that only 25% of the population is older than 65 and only 2.5 % is older than 85. These figures are universally agreed to be a large number and considered a good chunk of the elderly. I don’t think that is an accurate representation. It seems low to me. I have to believe there is an infant colony somewhere in the Okeechobee swamp skewing the numbers.

However, the tides (Florida pun) are changing. Miami is bustling with millennials, and St Petersburg is a growing enclave for the modern-day yuppie. Florida universities are populated with increasingly out-of-state students, and these kids are staying after graduation. Also, if I throw in the younger, more active retirees, my case may be dead in the balmy ocean. 

It’s a good thing too. My husband took a job in Florida, and we will have to move. The plan, which changes daily, is to move to Florida, and then when we are ready to retire in a few years, we will move back home and retire to the beach in NJ.  As most of my plans are, this plan is backward. I can’t wrap my head around moving permanently to Florida. It’s the last stop on the bus. 

Or Is It?

My college roommate moved to Florida after she married. She raised a family and had the same old suburban life I did but with sunshine, palm trees, and no black ice. Her son even played Ice Hockey. When I visited, we did not eat dinner early, nor did we go to the old Folks Corral Buffet or whatever it’s called. 

New Jersey is my home state, and it’s not so great. The Garden State is by no means the Garden of Eden. I choose to live in the Allergy capital of the world. According to a Yougov.com survey, NJ is 48th in a ranking from best to worst state. Only Mississippi and Alabama fared worse. Sit with that for a minute. Taxes are high, traffic is ridiculous, and we spawned the cast of The Jersey Shore. Maybe I should stop throwing stones at the sunshine state.

What is keeping me here?

It’s certainly not my job. As a substitute teacher, my days are numbered. The job title was only in name. The actual job description is Espionage. I traveled through the school system spying on my kids. The high school is my last stop. After this year, my son will graduate, I hope, and my assignment will be over.

The Kids Are Alright

It’s also not about selling my kid’s childhood home out from under them. We did that already when the kids were approaching teenage status. At the time, it seemed like a great idea. A pool and more room! However, no one warned me that once kids hit adolescence, they hole up in their bedroom and hibernate for 4 or 5 years, only to come out for food, to yell at me, or to take an occasional shower. 

 If I am to be honest, and throw out my fear of the elderly, another reason I am apprehensive about leaving is deserting my children. 

 My daughter will happily leave this house in a hot minute. Since middle school, she has been trying to get us to move out of this town and preferably to a  warm climate. Tanning is her passion. Although I throw sunscreen and graphic tanning horror stories at her all summer, the sun is her obsession.  

As I write this, my son has not made his college decision. He only has a few days left, but procrastination is embedded in our family crest. Although he has not spoken more than seven complete sentences to me since 2017, I am concerned he will feel adrift.  

Let The Sunshine In

I read Grown and Flown. I am entirely aware that I am fooling no one but myself. I am experiencing early onset empty nest syndrome. I am being forced to accept that it will just be me, my husband, the schizophrenic dog, and the cat. The fear is the move to the empty nest stage and not the move to the geriatric capital of the U.S.A.

Wherever we are will be home for the kids. I realize now that we are not entering the witness protection plan. We are not moving to Siberia or the moon. We will have room for guests, and I will give up my unenforced rule of only allowing guests to stay two nights. I will come back to New Jersey often, and I will continue to harass and nag my kids incessantly from wherever I am.

Oh, but the snakes.

My parents didn’t want to move to Florida, but they turned 60 and that’s just the law.

Jerry Seinfeld