Well, I am old enough to know about hubris, or instant karma, or plain old jinxing. The way I've aiming zingers at the State of Florida, I should have known that I'd pay. The heat, the humidity, the weird odors, the gigantic bugs, the sense that everything that isn't growing is putrefying with similar speed - what it evokes, for me, is not some lyrical Proustian memory. It's more like flashbacks.
See, the thing is, while I wouldn't choose to make Florida my home, I don't really hate it. Also, more and more people I like seem to live in Florida, and not a single one of them is incarcerated there. I mean, they could leave if they felt like it. So clearly it's just me being all shirty. (You can't really be shirty in Florida. I don't think I've ever seen clothing there that looked crisp and starched, at least not after it's been out of the air-conditioned hotel for 30 seconds.) I haven't ever spent time in Miami Beach or any of its upscale districts, although I've heard that there's lots of flash and sleek golden skin, and money, money, money. I've only really spent time in the Florida of tube tops and cut-offs for the not-old, and the rainbow-hued terry or acrylic "track" suit ensembles (I cannot say "warm-ups" or "sweats") on the not-young.
A party of sherbet-colored elderly women is an agreeable sight. Yes, a consistent snarkinator wouldn't say that, but I can't help it. They look so comfortable. Remember, when these women were very young, they felt compelled to adhere to dress codes and grooming rituals that many of you can hardly imagine.
Once upon a time, there wasn't any Lycra. You don't have to imagine a world without dazzlingly pretty bicyclists and in-line skaters. Just imagine a bra without stretchy, form-fitting straps. They were plain white cotton straps that you adjusted with a metal grommety-clasp thing, and the loose end of the strap always, always found egress. Say hello to your strap-end as it pokes out of the armhole of your sleeveless shirt! Never mind; you just felt a garter snap on your sheath-type girdle, and that triggers a higher state of alert. You look down. Good. Although the nylon stocking is starting to pleat around your ankle, it hasn't slid completely down yet. Now: to find a powder room and take care of the dangling hem of your slip at the same time you fix your bra strap, while checking for other grooming infractions.
(That's one reason for the tradition of women going to the restrooms en masse. It takes a village to maintain that sort of individual infrastructure.)
Girdles were rubber tubes that smoothed your flesh upward and downward, and then cut into the wearer's midriff and upper thighs at the exact place of the relocated flesh. Slenderness was a secondary reason. More important was that the girdle offered tabs on which to fasten your stockings. Most important was the girdle's complete subjugation of jiggling, swaying, bouncing femininity. It was the anti-thong. Your butt was supposed to be a single unit, otherwise you were asking for it.
On and on...the cumbersome paraphernalia you had to assemble once a month; the wire hair rollers with the sharp brushes that you slept in; the pointy bras that occasionally stayed put when you whirled around, giving you a pneumatic back. Add to all of this the prevailing custom of any random stranger (not to mention co-workers, bosses, the mail man....) feeling entitled to trumpet "Come on! Smile! It can't be that bad!" and you have a terrycloth revolution waiting to happen.
So: elderly women in unrestrictive, elastic waist pull-on pants and comfy jackets, feet clad in sneakers, moving through Disneyworld or the local malls like schools of pastel little fishes, comfortable at long last - this is kind of neat.
I have an idea! Perhaps I'll get back to my point!
Here is what serves me right: leftover bits of Hurricane Claudette are drifting and dispersing around the southwest and up into Northern California. I doubt it will rain, but there may be a thunderstorm or two, especially in the foothills. Wait, there's more! We have a little heat wave. Mix with leftover hurricane and the forecast is steamy ambient air you could grab by the handful and wring out.
So, I hope everyone enjoys Vulkon. I close my eyes, and it's like I'm there.
