On Monday, I moved to Florida.
Something like that, anyway. I put my shoes in the closet of a glorified dorm room and threw a duvet on the bed. And, you know, I’d like to say something really sentimental about the entire experience up until this point, but to be completely honest, I haven’t really given it much thought. I haven’t had time to give it much thought. I’ll tell you what I have had time for though. Sweating.
When I took this job I remember questioning if I would be able to handle the heat. I told myself that of course I could handle the heat. I spent an entire spring break weekend down here once. I would be fine. Well, here’s something I didn’t seem to remember about spring break: I spent the entire thing drunk with no clothes on in March.
And now that I’m here, in head to toe business-appropriate attire and sober in May (going on June, July, August) I’m beginging to think that four days in Daytona doesn’t really count as a good judging point for the state’s weather.
I sat on a crowded bus yesterday and when I stood up I had to warn someone not to sit there. Because I was literally sweating my ass off. I’m not exagerating. She sat down anyways because she was already soaked, but I felt like I had to say something. There is nothing worse than sitting down on a wet public transit seat.
All day, every day, all I think about it sweating. I can’t even eat it’s so humid out. I brought strawberries home from the store the other day and they created their own condensation in the plastic carton.
Not to mention hurricane season. Which apparently hasn’t started yet, but you could have fooled me. The rain I’ve experienced here is unlike anything I’ve ever seen in my life… and I’m from Vancouver. It’s like movie rain. Thirty seconds and it’s a white T-shirt contest on the corner of International Drive and Vineland. Not to mention Florida is a swamp so within those thirty seconds, 6 inches of water has accumulated on the ground and baby geckos have decided to take cover in your shoes.
Needless to say, I’ve been battling the elements. As I start work next week, my main concern is nothing besides how I’m going to survive 8-13 hour shifts in the great Florida outdoors. Reflection hasn’t been in the cards yet. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t learned some valuable lessons. In fact, I’ve learned one very important thing.
You don’t have to worry about ever looking good in Florida.
Why? Because there’s two kinds of people that live in this state; those who look sexy, damp, and sultry when they’re sweaty and those who look sweaty when they’re sweaty. I happen to look sweaty when I’m sweaty. And despite my $35 clinical strength degree deodorant, I am going to always look sweaty when I’m sweaty, because I’m from Canada where it’s more often cold than it is hot.
“You’re from Canada?” asked my roommate from North Carolina. “My parents went to Canada for their honeymoon. I don’t know WHY.“
I know why.
Let me break it down for you.
I was walking towards this hot guy on the street the other day and normally I would have done something classic like drop my ID card and do the bend and snap, but instead I dropped my ID card and proceeded to squat down awkwardly and faux-fumble around with it for 45 seconds until he passed so that I didn’t have to insult his good genes by actually existing in his presence. For the first time in my life I was embarrassed to be looked at.
If I ever got married down here, I’d have to go back to Canada just so my husband would want to consecrate the marriage.
Am I really that sweaty?
Let me continue:
That hot guy I was telling you about? He got on the bus with me. The crowded bus. The bus where the only available room to sit was not sitting, but standing. And where that standing entailed that you have to hang on to those stupid bars on the ceiling so you won’t fall over. He got on. I got on. He stopped. I stopped. He put his arm up to hold on the bar. I put my arm up to hold on to the bar. We looked at each other.
“I’m sorry my armpit is in your face” I said. Because that’s what you say to a hot guy when he gets on the bus with you and there’s no choice but to put your armpit in his face.
“Don’t worry about it” he laughed, “Your deodorant smells nice.”
And then we rode 30 minutes home in silence, because where can you go from there?
