The Armpit of Florida

Yesterday for Labor Day we took off for the beach.  It was one last summer fling.  (Although I can't really call it that because it was also our first trip to the beach this summer.)

We packed lunches and were in the middle of the caravan with the Mitchell's (minus Carey who had to work) and Janek's to Bald Point State Park.  A little over an hour from Tallahassee.

Now, when you're sitting around in your house anticipating a boring Labor Day, a trip to the beach sounds idyllic and peaceful.  And FUN.

When you're parked in the 100 degree weather being bitten by evil flies on a strip of seaweed in the armpit of Florida, you're wondering if someone drugged you and led you there against your will.

But you take the bad with the good, and although there is plenty of both, such is life.  Especially in the armpit.  I grew up on the east coast, at about the curvaceous attractive waist of Florida.  Waves.  Pretty shells.  Constant breeze.  Rich retired people who are super tan.  In the armpit, people who shouldn't wear bikinis, do.  Dogs run free.  There is cigarette smoke.

The children don't care, though.  They would prefer waves, but make the most of any journey that includes water and sand and friends.  I wish I could bottle their innocence and bring myself to a place where I can embrace the armpit.  I try my best.  But while I enjoyed talking with friends and watching the children play, in the back of my mind I was really just asking myself over and over (and over)...

If you wash your hands in the water that flows through the armpit of Florida, ARE THEY REALLY CLEAN??

I love you, Tallahassee beaches.  You are God's creation too.  But there is a reason I only visit you about once a year.  You need better deodorant.