Just Because We're Floridians, It Doesn't Mean We're Nudists

I met my fellow exiled Floridian friend Delano for drinks at the Gold Star Bar, surrounded by bike messenger lesbians, living breathing Candace Rialson characters, and unwashed art school dropouts, basking in the lighting that makes you feel like you're inside a poorly maintained aquarium.

"Well, I can kiss this new job goodbye," Delano said, taking a seat. He removed his blue winter hat and tossed it on the bar. "My co-workers think I'm a nudist."

"You're not a nudist," I said. "Why did you tell them that?"

"I didn't," he said. "But I met them for drinks after work, and we started talking about where we grew up, and I told them--"

"Florida," I interrupted, the rage bubbling inside of me, the way it always does when faced with this kind of stereotyping from Midwestern-Americans.

Delano ordered an orange dacquiri. I ordered a second Sex on the Beach. Make it a double, bartender.

"I should have told them I was from Alabama," Delano continued. "That would have excused my accent, and they would just think I was an inbred hillbilly instead of a nudist."

"No, dammit!" I said. "We can't hide anymore! I tried hiding it, remember? I covered my tanlines. I called Coke "pop." I changed the way I said "roof," "jack off," and "Afghanistan!" I even pretended that Old Style was a good beer, remember?"

"Oh, Old Style!" Delano said, suppressing a gag. "How could you live that lie?"

"I know. It was tough." I took a big slurp out of my Sex on the Beach to drown the awful memory of that fully kreausened nightmare. "But that was when, after the inevitable Old Style hangover, I took a good hard look in the mirror, and I stared at my golden complexion, my surfer smile, my Margarittavillian devil-may-care countenance, and I said to myself, 'Self. This is who you are. A Floridian.' And this, Delano, this is who we are. Floridians."

I raised my Sex on the Beach in a toast. "To Florida," I said.

"To Florida," Delano answered. "The nudest peninsula in America."

This anecdote is all-too-typical of the struggles and indignities most expatriate Floridians politely endure on a daily basis. While, in the interests of full disclosure, it is not uncommon for parties in Florida to end up with the kind of nudity that would make the average Midwesterner blush like a Kansas Junior Leaguer winning the "Best Casserole" blue ribbon at the County Fair, that does not--repeat: DOES NOT--mean that we Floridians are nudists.

Nor does it mean that our day-to-day existences were as idyllic as your two weeks in your Kissimmee timeshare. To answer all your questions I've received in the past 10 years of living in Chicago in one felt swoop: No, I did not go to theme parks every single day; Yes, the weather is nicer in February than it is in Chicago; No, I am not friends with Mickey; No, I can't think of any place in Orlando that might have "local color;" Yes, that 2000 election was a mess and I had nothing to do with it; Yes, I did go to the beach when I lived there; No, Tampa is not worth your time; No, I am not a fan of Jimmy Buffett, Rob Thomas, Gloria Estefan, the Backstreet Boys, or death metal.

While you Midwestern-Americans have shown great strides in recent years towards your myriad Florida biases, it is my hope that you will make even greater improvements in 2007. You can start by repeating this phrase: Not all Floridians are nudists. Not all Floridians are nudists. Not all Floridians are nudists. Repeat this just like a mantra, until you believe it, and then we'll talk about hooking you up with some prime swampland...before the developers destroy what's left of the swamps in favor of golf courses and mcplantations.

Thank you.