Miami is insane, which is why we love it

I am trying to stay awake as I write this. It’s not particularly late, but the pace of the city I love has worn me out. Color me pooped. Obviously I am not referring to the MFT (Merciless Frozen Tundra) that is Binghamton, New York, where it is no doubt below zero and darkly overcast -- a landscape that only Edvard Munch might appreciate. Instead I am referring to the wonderful, insane beauty that is Miami.

Honey, I’m home! ¡Bienvenidos a Miami!

I have returned to pursue another academic degree, and quite frankly, I have also run (not walked, not even trotted) home to Miami because I wasn’t sure I would survive another MFT winter. So in the interest of, oh, I don’t know, not dying, I chose life! And by that I mean heading south.

The MIA acclimation period is one fraught with possibility. I mean, I’ve already smashed up my car. In truth, more like scraped it up quite badly. See? I told you I was tired. However, if I’m going to continue with the truth here, it was the pole’s fault, not mine. And honestly, that bright yellow doesn’t look so bad on silver.

But that is not the point. Or is it? Does it matter? No. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t! That is the benefit of living in a truly bipolar city. Nothing matters. Not really. Because two minutes from now, probably just as you are reading this, everything will have changed. That is what I have come to realize about Miami. And I am thankful for my time -- more accurately, doing time -- in the MFT. Because without that stint of pure, unadulterated misery, I might never have learned to peek past the curtain hemmed with daily Miami annoyances to embrace the craziness.

The trick to enjoying the “Magic City” is to go with it. The moment you fight the eccentricities and start taking anything seriously, you are not going to enjoy yourself. And I do mean anything -- ranging from the guy who cut you off from three lanes over to make a left turn on red to the surly woman holding up the line of five people because the change she received from the cashier was allegedly short by 25 cents to the utterly inept valet who thought your stick-shift car was an automatic transmission to the waiter who couldn’t be bothered to bring you a menu in less than ten minutes.

And if you’re not enjoying yourself, you will turn into one of those people who complain about the “swamp” that is the South Florida summer, and kvetch about your bagel schmear being too onion-y. And you are going to become just like me before I realized how bad life really could be.

In short: You are going to miss the point. Miami is stupid. Miami makes no sense whatsoever. So enjoy it.

Now that I am back, I must, like the humble caterpillar that morphs into the butterfly, adjust to a new life, one that allows me to fly, fluttering about from branch to flower, rather than remaining in the larval stage, munching and molting on only one leaf.

Thankfully, the adjustment period coming from the MFT back to Miami is a helluva lot more pleasant than the adjustment period I had to undergo last year, when I spent three weeks in Miami only to return to the MFT. Unlike returning to prison, coming back here is like drawing a Get Out of Jail Free card. Monopoly, anyone? I mean, it’s raining as I write this. But that’s okay, because the puny little weather front will pass, the clouds will bundle up into cottony goodness once more, and the sun will emerge.

The Return to Miami adjustment period consists of getting one’s bearings in order. First on my “To do” list is the process of de-MFTization. More precisely, de-MFTization is actually a series of exercises in detraumatization (put your dictionaries down, I know it’s not a word). Because, make no mistake about it, I am traumatized.

Think that sounds a little dramatic? Well, I assure you it is not. I’m not sure how else to explain the rash of (new!) irrational behaviors. Like repeatedly swiveling my head halfway around (well, it won’t go the whole way around) in a panicked attempt to check to see if the sun is still out. (It is. Check.)

And how about my newfound aversion to micro-fleece? I was with a friend shopping for a blanket. The cotel (condo hotel) where I am staying lacks a decent blanket. My friend innocently picked out a snuggly bit o’ warmth, and I surprised even myself when I literally backed away, horrified. I mean, if my friend had thrust a cobra in my face I would have been less startled.

Well-Meaning Friend [confused]: “What’s wrong? Feel it! It’s so nice!”

Me [stricken]: “No…more…fleece. No…more…micro-fleece. Down with the Snuggie! Fleece is the devil! You hear me? Put it back! [Shrinking from the sea-foam green softness.] Dammit, now!”

You see? This is not the behavior exhibited by a normal person who is reasonably well-adjusted -- adjusted being the operative word here.

Fortunately I am well versed in trauma. That’s right. If anyone can deal with PTSD, it’s me. It’s really more than a state of mind for me. It’s an address. Perhaps the circumstances and the street are new, but the responses and handling of such pathologies are similar.

One somewhat unexpected Miami adjustment I am trying to gel with is the time change. I realize I am in the same time zone as the MFT (although, to be fair, it does not seem like it). So it’s not a jet-lag issue. Not exactly. It’s more of a flow issue.

Back in the MFT, time stopped. I often referred to it as the Twilight Zone, but it could just as easily have been one loop from the movie Groundhog Day, in which Bill Murray must endure the same day repeatedly. In the MFT, it just seemed like nothing ever changed. This was probably, in part, due to the weather, which was always, let’s call it for what it is, shit.

In Miami there is a low hum that keeps everything moving. Besides, given that Miami is a truly bipolar city, the mood swings are demanding and exhausting in and of themselves. But they also can be fun. The Merciless Frozen Tundra is simply exhausting in its monotony.

Well, I must go. The rain has stopped and sun has returned in all its glory. And seeing as I am working on my reacclimation to paradise, I feel I must run outside and embrace it. Before it goes away. Because it will go away in ten minutes. Right?

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