The second my husband turned 60, he decided it was time to join the million residents who spend part of the year (in our case, six months) in Florida.
My spouse sold me on the sun, sand, and surf — and a North Miami condo rental on the 20th floor with ocean views. I didn’t protest when he suggested it — so many of our friends who are empty nesters have made the part-time move to Boca, Palm Beach, Fort Lauderdale, or Delray.
But when we shipped our car stuffed with bags down to Aventura in December, I quickly realized this was far different from New York City.
I tried to make the most out of it
The first week, my hubby was gleeful playing pickleball and snoozing on the terrace. I, however, immediately experienced a rosacea flareup from the 85-degree heat and humidity and wound up at a dermatologist’s office.
The doctor asked if I could stay out of the sun. “Can you write me a prescription to go back to New York?” I responded. Instead, she sold me $159 worth of sunscreen products and sent me on my way.
As the weeks crawled by, we went on a few double dates with other couples. “You’ll like them. They’re about our age,” my spouse assured me. They were — give or take 20 years. A few already had grandchildren and were on their second hip replacement.
Rather than pout, I decided to make the most of my situation. Every day, I would don a wide-brimmed baseball hat and take a long walk around the exercise trail leading around the golf course. As I logged in my 10,000 steps, I dodged kids on bikes, Door Dash deliveries on motorized scooters, even a four-foot-long lizard and a family of wild ducks. Once, on my second loop, I passed a woman pushing her Maltese in a stroller. I peered inside the carriage; the dog looked more miserable than I.
I felt out of place
Strolling back through the security gates into the condo complex driveway, I called a friend to vent.
“This is so not me! I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone!” I said to hear while complaining about how no one wore black.
She was talking me off the ledge when I suddenly heard screeching tires. I turned to see a blue Cadillac coming straight at me. It swerved side to side wildly, hitting a few palm trees in its path and taking out the arm of the security gate. I screamed and jumped into a bush as it sped past, finally coming to a hard stop in front of the condo fountain.
I ran after the car, prepared to scream at the driver for trying to mow me down. An old, bent-over gentleman emerged from behind the wheel, and his nurse stepped out of the passenger side. She apologized, and I saw that the man was clearly in shock — he was 97 years old, I found out.
I made my way upstairs, thankfully unharmed but covered in dirt from my tumble into the landscaping. I told my spouse what happened.
“Florida,” he shrugged. “What are you gonna do?”
There was plenty I could do — for starters, book my return flight home the next day.
“This IS home,” he reminded me.
I didn’t want to be here
I went into the bathroom, slammed the door behind me, and cried. This life wasn’t me, and despite wanting to be a good wife and spend quality time with my husband, I didn’t want to be here. I felt completely lost.
I talked to my spouse and explained how I was feeling. To his credit, he told me to travel back and forth as much as I needed. Delta Air Lines became my new best friend.
We struck a compromise: I return to New York every two weeks, spend a week or two recharging my batteries, and then return.
I now see my daughter, do my work, and meet up with friends. When I’m home and he is in Florida, I don’t miss the surroundings, but I do miss him. He comes back to NYC a few times as well, and the rest of the time we spend together in what I try not to call “Aventorture” (at least not in front of him). As we reach the end of May and our official “move out” time for the snowbird season, I’m actually starting to feel more at ease. I got this.
I found a few things that keep me entertained and sane: local theater, an Air Supply concert, and the Ralph’s coffee stand at the Aventura Mall that doesn’t run out of oat milk. It will never be NYC, but maybe when I’m 97 (hopefully not still driving), it may seem ideal.
Read the full article here
