I can’t count how many times I’ve been to South Florida, and I’m afraid I’ve always called it “the armpit of the United States.”
Miami, at least in my experience, is home to some of the most plastic-surgeried, pretentious, bro-style assholes on Earth. I’d apologize for the generalization if I didn’t 100% believe it. A perfect example is the first time (only time) Brandon and I vacationed here intentionally: night 1, we encountered a club with a step and repeat set up in the lobby of our hotel. Day 2, morning: I walked out to the beach and was stopped by Miami’s version of Tan Mom literally saying to my face, “Oh, honey: you need a tan. What’s wrong with you?”
I’ve got flawless porcelain skin, biyatch: that’s what happened.
Anyway, my work also frequently takes me to Weston, FL, just outside of Ft. Lauderdale. Weston is a very Stepford universe, with manicured lawns, high-end SUVs, and perfect-looking lives. Ft. Lauderdale is a little more fun and youthful, but I don’t see a lot of it.
My latest business trip, which caps off my last month at my agency, round-robins me from Weston to Aruba to Pittsburgh, and although I probably wouldn’t have chosen to take time off in Weston, it’s been a great experience.
Why, you ask?
I came here with two of my all-time favorite coworkers and hung out with a couple of my all-time favorite clients. We ate Thai and talked business and got tipsy. And even better, others I love live here; wonderful people I’ve met through work that I consider true friends… and although I won’t see them this trip, I can guarantee I’ll be visiting again voluntarily after I move on. Not to see Tan Mom, not to get drunk in South Beach, but to drive around lame Weston, FL to see some of the most wonderful people on the planet.
Because even when you’re not in your favorite of places, home is where the heart is.
And a tiny piece of my heart is in Weston, FL.
Just a tiny bit splattered all over the perfect, pristine lawns.