I am in agony—real, soul-bruising agony—because for the past few months, I have been drunk on the seductive fumes of a dream: early retirement in Royal Palm Beach, Florida. Not Palm Beach proper—no, that would be too garish, too Gatsby. I mean the inland cousin, fifteen humid miles from the Atlantic, nestled inside a gated community with a neighborhood pool, a bubbling hot tub, and the promise of palms swaying while my family lounges like extras in a Jimmy Buffett fever dream.
This fantasy has infected my sleep, crept into the margins of my Google Maps history, and left me hypnotized by listing photos of stucco homes with outdoor ceiling fans and screened-in lanais. I dared to believe I could trade my overworked California existence for a new life—a life of 5 a.m. swims, grocery runs in flip-flops, and the quiet joy of hearing my daughters say, “I’m bored,” while floating in chlorinated bliss.
And then—smack. My wife crushed the dream with one phrase: “Florida’s a big no.”
Just like that, the mirage dissolved. I am at the age—let’s not name it—where the idea of fleeing to a tropical holding cell with reliable AC and an HOA that enforces silence after 9 p.m. sounds not just reasonable but romantic. But maybe that’s the trick. Maybe Florida isn’t salvation. Maybe it’s a siren song crooned by real estate agents with perfect teeth and mosquito-resistant tans.
Next week we fly to Oahu, and yes, I hope my family finds some version of the enchantment I’ve been chasing. But let’s be honest: deep in the humid corners of my heart, I’ll still be yearning for Royal Palm Beach—a gated Eden with pool rules and a hot tub that works.
Cinemorphosis 
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