"We hit the sunny beaches where we occupy ourselves keeping the sun off our skin, the saltwater off our bodies, and the sand out of our belongings." ~Erma Bombeck
This past weekend I turned into one of those obnoxious jackasses who I have spent all winter hating. You know the kind; the ones who post over 900 photos of ocean and palm trees and SUNLIGHT as if to say, "Look at me! I'm warm! You're not! BOOM!" Because hey, y'all, I went to Miami.
I don’t know if you recall and/or had personal experience with the Polar Vortex but there were moments this winter when it was 27 degrees outside and I’d be walking around Albany in a t-shirt and flip flops because remember when it was -8? Yeah, the high-20's is what we started to refer to as a 'warm front'. When I landed in Miami on Thursday and saw that great big, bright, round ball in the sky I had an "once was lost, but now I'm found. Was blind but now I see" moment. Do you know what feels good after seven months of winter? Humidity. There was a brief moment where I stared out over the Atlantic and made mental note of what a body of water looks like when it's not frozen.
It’s been a long winter on many fronts and without getting into detail or a lengthy cliche-filled, vague post on the sadness of the last six months; I'll simply put all of that energy into making a real attempt at looking forward. One morning I made the mistake of rehashing a particularly difficult evening in the past. I contemplated the what-if's and the utter loss I felt and in the middle of my walk down memory lane I started to tear up which turned into suppressing my sobs between sips of a mimosa. This was about when I realized that my constant woulda, coulda, shoulda-ing is completely unhealthy and solves very little. And then I gave myself a pat on the back for my self-awareness about the situation and what really makes me happy. And then I was like, dude, 30 years old. What is up! Then I got a second mimosa and pulled myself together because there is no crying while beaching.
So, Miami. It’s exactly as advertised. Like, you know that there will be bright lights and scantily clad women (and men) and then you leave thinking that you could totally become a gynecologist. By day I sat and spent time reflecting and wrote (more on that later) more than I had in the last two years. By night I allowed myself to be distracted by the glitz enough to propel me to that state of euphoria. Miami is the place to run to when you want to leave everything behind.
It was perfection. Needed. Appreciated. Embraced with a warm hug and a nuzzle. Soon to be turned into an annual event with one of the best travel partners a woman could ask for. A travel partner who, after 25 years of friendship, still knows how to make me laugh myself into a fit of hiccups.
Before I say this next part just know that this entire trip was paid for by me as evidenced by the look on my face when I took a gander at my checking account yesterday afternoon. Like, oh, I'm going to have to get a second job and there's absolutely nothing wrong with subsisting on Ramen and Bud Light for the next three weeks. We stayed at The Surfcomber, a Kimpton property located on Collins Avenue. It was everything you could want in a hotel during a vacation - and more - including staff who learned our names because there we were, always together, always with the drinks by the pool. I am known for doing a lot of complaining on Twitter but I did have to send out a tweet of love to Kimpton because good service should be recognized. As should the free, daily wine hour.
I’d write more but I'll stop here for now because a) It's supposed to snow tonight so I just want to stare at some of these photos and remember how wonderful Friday was and b) I'm too busy experiencing my very first sunburn. Which, for the uninitiated, yes, black people get sunburned as well. I'm far too interested in singing THIS ARM IS ON FIRE! to anyone who will listen.
Anyway, onward because spring? I’m coming for ya.