Au de Old Palm Beach Ladies

Last week saw Leslie attending a business conference in Florida. Normally I like Florida. That is, I like taking vacations in Florida. Last week was the first time I’ve had to work in Florida. And the working part takes the Florida part out of Florida.

Besides the fact that I had to work, my residential circumstances were less than desirable. The next time a travel agent suggests a room at a less expensive boutique hotel, beg off. I now know that “boutique” is Palm Beach’s secret code for hotels-that-sport-the-ever-present-odor-of-old-ladies-smoking-Lucky-Strikes. Back in the 60’s. Gack.

Now dear reader (notice how the singular is used since I realize my only reader is my dear friend Paige. Hi Paige!) I’m sure you’re thinking, “Show me a girl who complains in Palm Beach and I’ll show you an on-the-cusp boomer with an over wrought sense of entitlement.”

And you would be correct.

After 4 days in the rarified, much over-rated and absolutely deserted (it’s still off-season and all the geriatric Wasps must be in Michigan) atmosphere of Palm Beach, I made trek north to Orlando. Lest I portray myself as not grateful for four freewheeling days on a desolate (a psychologist friend used the clinical term “under stimulating”) Florida island, I decided to employ the advice my father offered when I complained of being bored as teenager: I used my time to my advantage. For the first time. Ever.

So I created my gratitude list. Oprah popularized this practice a few years ago in her glossy magazine whose cover always features Oprah looking flawless. I read the article while standing in a convenience store check-out line and then returned the magazine to its proper holder. It’s my form of theft. 

So here’s my list of things for which I’m grateful written while driving at a reasonable 60 mph on the Florida Turnpike between Palm Beach and Orlando.*

Numero uno: I’m grateful for the opportunity to drive north through central Florida and not have to sit at my desk all afternoon. The same groundbreaking marketing thoughts that dance through my head while I’m at the office dance while I’m driving. The big difference is that I can stop at every McDonald’s for coffee at my leisure without bothersome co-workers asking, “Now where is she?” 

Numero deux: Feeling grateful that I don’t live in central Floriday. Nothing here but scores of odoriferous old ladies wandering about all of whom congregated simultaneously in front of me in the grocery store line. I felt the need to return my grapes for fear of being grossed out, even at only 97 cents a pound.

Numero three: Deciding I’ll work a day job while pursuing my literary career. Because I still can’t eat glory. And which day job it will be is still up for grabs. But that’s a different post so stay tuned.

Numero four:  Marshalls. I SHALL NEVER TIRE of Marshalls. Why? Because ‘Yes’ is always the answer. Can I have the deeply discounted blue suit with tasteful metallic contrast stitching? Yes. How about the hip hugging jeans just a bit too young looking for my 40+ derriere? Big yes. And the winter jacket with the Michael Kors label? Hell yes! Do I really believe it’s a Michael Kors original? Hell no. But at $24.99, I don’t much care.

No matter how many unmatched separates I squeeze into the teensie-weensie closets of my 1947 Cape Cod manse, the fact that Marshall’s sells skirts in size 6 into which my butt fits is miraculous. And at only $19.99, I’m buying two. In this crap-ola economic turnaround, Congress should declare Marshalls a national monument to commerce. Were there a store near my home (hint to Marshall’s marketing department, please expand into the general vicinity of 45202) my weekly shopping sprees would assure my ascent onto the cover of Town and Country.

In my afterlife.

Numero Five-o: Rainfall shower heads. These engineering marvels avoid the need for the shower-er (she being moi) to have to aim. One just stands beneath it and lets the rain wash one’s troubles down the drain. And its droplets rid my sinuses of the grotie old lady smell.

Numero Six-ish: High-def TVs with functioning remote controls. This entry gets a triple gratitude score for convenience, indulgence and narcissism. I can turn it on and off and surf channels while carefully documenting the faint-but-still-there lines on the faces of the oh-so- much-younger-than-moi co-hosts of trashy TV tabloid shows (all on during the 7 pm Eastern TV viewing hour) whilst never having to remove the comforter that’s keeping me snuggly warm. I know it’s 89 degrees outside in sunny Palm Beach, but would someone please turn down the AC?

So there they you have them; the six-ish reasons why I’m happy with my current circumstances.

My advice? Think about yours. Then let me know. I’ll turn this into a happy our-lives-are-wonderful-even-without-all-the-good-stuff-we-really-want need” page.

Until then, join me here for another complaint-filled post coming soon.

 * And I’m typing this while in a plane cruising at 30,000 feet. Technology is oh so my literary enhancer. Must be something about going forward in a big hurry…