Kickin' it in the Sunshine State

I can sit on the couch in my apartment with a blanket, socks, and hot mug of tea while the thermostat reads 75 and still manage to be cold.

It must be hereditary because my dad's brother is the same way.
Which is why he moved to Florida.

Guess who loved his niece enough to let her flee from the blustery cold of Michigan for a week and stay at his house in the land so aptly dubbed the "Sunshine State"? From the Saturday before Christmas until the Saturday following, I relished in the shining skies and balmy breezes of coastal Florida. It was a glorious vacation inside of a vacation as I relaxed with my family, read books, rode a bike near the beach, and didn't even think about coats or boots. That is, until my homegoing plane landed in northern Indiana and my paradisaical bubble of Floridian bliss was frozen over and shattered to pieces by the terrible snowstorm raging outside the airport. Welcome home! Why does this greeting for a home-bound traveler feel more like a slap in the face than a warm loving hug? It's okay, I guess. The Midwest is appealing in an acquired taste kind of way, and those of us who have lived here for our entire lives know better than to be offended at apparent insults.

The tropical climate of eastern Florida is the perfect place to lose your heart and fall in love.
My heart has no chance of ever finding its way back to my chest, as it was irrevocably and unmistakably stolen by a 16 month old little girl. My baby cousin is quite possibly the most beautiful and adorable miniature human on this planet. Of course I say this without any hint of bias. We had never met before, but by the end of the first day, she was calling me momma and almost exclusively wanted me to hold her. This became problematic when it was time for me to leave, but her despair upon parting with her new, honorary mother was quickly appeased with the lure of Goldfish snack crackers. At least now I know my true value is slightly less than a 1.5 ounce bag of processed bovine by-product in glibly smiling piscine shapes.
We all have those people in our lives. You know, "those people." The ones that shove pictures of their grandchildren or dogs or prize winning yachts in your face and expect you to ooh and ah over them until they are sufficiently satisfied with your reaction. Alas, I now understand what compels them to do so, as I have joined the ranks and sent a picture of my cousin to most of my close friends demanding that they tell me how cute she is. Well, now that my reputation is established, I might as well subject you to the same treatment.

I have always loved the beach, the ocean... really anything to do with water, ships, or pirate stories. If I up and turned into a mermaid one day, that would be just fine. Christmas Eve morning, my uncle and I biked out to the ocean and watched the sunrise over the water. My eyes filled with the myriad of golden morning colors straining against the bonds of their clever cloudy captors. My ears filled with the even progression of sound from the grumbling of the waves to the tinkling of the foam like so many thousands of tiny silver bells. And my heart filled with the beauty of the scene, overflowing and sweeping me along in wild fancies and nautical daydreams. Many people wish for a white Christmas to celebrate Jesus' birth, but I wouldn't mind having a Christmas just like this one every year - celebrating my Savior's birth through the glory of the sunrise on the ocean.

I've always loved the church service of carols and candlelight the night before Christmas morning. Singing is my favorite, old hymns are my favorite, and Christmas is my favorite, so the combination of the three is just great. My family that was down in Florida attended the Christmas Eve service at my aunt and uncle's small Methodist church that night, and their church had a terrific little orchestra section complementing the four-part choir that sang the carols. The whole orchestra was wonderful, but my attention was captured in particular by the first violinist. An exceedingly handsome youth who excited thoughts of romantic felicity in her mind whilst he coaxed his violin to song....whoops! I've been reading too many Jane Austen novels. Scouts honor, I tried to be attentive to the service, but it was a perfect "boy meets girl" setting and fostered my flights of fancy. He was directly down the aisle in my line of sight, we were surrounded by beautiful music and romantic candlelight, and my head was swimming with quotes from Persuasion. 
There were several logistical complications that didn't even cross my mind until afterward.
He could be married.
Or short.
Or, as I learned later, still in high school.
April's cougar tendencies strike again. Remind me to tell you that later about that time I had a crush on a sixth grader when I was seventeen years old.

In addition to babies, bike rides, and high-school-aged boys, I spent a lot of time shopping in town with my aunt and grandma, at the end of which I learned a very valuable life lesson – always leave room in your suitcase when you go somewhere because you will inevitably return with more stuff than you brought. My suitcase was lying on the floor sucking in its stomach to get the zipper closed when I started, and it gained its fair share of holiday weight over the week. There is a certain caliber of packing skills that only a college student can possess, and it took all of my packing proficiency to get that poor suitcase stuffed full and closed for the flight home. 

A great many of the stores through which we browsed were thrift stores. My love for thrifting must run in the family, because my grandmother and aunt are also well versed in the art of hunting for second-hand treasure. After all, who doesn't love buying a $70.00 brand-name shirt with the original tags still attached for only $5.50? However, every pro is usually followed by a con. For me, at least, shopping for shoes at thrift stores only serves to remind me again and again how depressingly large my feet are. Most people don't wear size Godzilla, and the rare person who does will not be quick to give up the cute shoes she can find in her size. 

As great as thrifting is, every girl loves to try on expensive clothes once in a while, so we found ourselves at the mall eventually. After strolling past window upon window of beautiful clothing designs and colors, we encountered a store front that displayed the most hideous shoes. In particular, one pair of seven inch stilettos covered in glittering punk rock spikes. My dear, sweet, 85-year-old grandmother looks me right in the eye and says in her slightly dampened New York City accent, "Why, those shoes would look lovely on you, April. I think you should get that pair."
Now I know where my sense of humor comes from. It would be an honor to be just like her when I grow old.

I love my family dearly. They are such warm, welcoming, and inviting people, and I couldn't have imagined a better way to spend my last Christmas vacation in college. Who knows? Maybe Christmas in Florida will become a yearly tradition now. Ah, one can dream...