Dear C,
Could your vacation ennui be catching? No sooner did you return to the Village than we departed for the in-laws' country club in Florida, where the sun persists in shining and it's fried shrimp and prime rib on the menu everyday for the rest of your life. Even the landscape has been clipped, sprayed and tamed to within an inch of its life – that is, the part that hasn't already been turned into a golf course or strip mall. Even the people replenishing the free Tampax in the ladies' bathroom at the gym are white.
You'd think being surrounded by such orderly perfection would be relaxing, since everything has already been done for you, from picking up litter, to providing umbrellas, drinks and towels at the beach pool. So why do I feel like putting the pedal to the metal and driving the golf cart (at 15mph, no less) into the nearest alligator-infested swamp?
Could it be that you and I are just true contrarians at heart, or do we just have no idea how good we have it? All I know is that I can't wait to head back to the freezing north, and share a hot and spicy meal of dubious origin served in some sweaty ethnic dive located in some blasted corner of downtown DC. In the meantime, I guess I'll just have to make do with a hot and sweaty oldballandchain, as he returns from his daily workout on the tennis courts.
At least it's started to rain.
P.
