We just got back from our annual trip to Florida. I know this because I’m fielding a lot of jokey comments about my tan, or lack thereof. Just for the record, I’ll have you know that I returned after ten days in the sun a whole quarter-step closer to beige than I was when I left. So there, snide people with actual pigment in their skin. So there.

I think I’ve mentioned before that Florida and I don’t have much in common. We try to stay longer than a week when we go, mostly because I spend the first three days all tensed up and cranky because everything moves so slowly, oh my god, get it together Florida. But I’ve learned through the years to loosen up about the Sunshine State’s meandering chaos, which I now understand is a human being’s natural response to 90 degrees and 130 percent humidity. By day four I just kind of sink into a heat-induced daze and accept whatever comes my way, be that fried fish sandwiches the size of my head, eighty-year-old women in bikinis, or alligators swimming below my children.

Sure, it looks alarming but whatever, man. It’s just Florida.

Someone go get me another fried fish sandwich.

I love those things.