Greetings from Miami!
The opportunity to skip winter in Manhattan and decamp to sunny Miami Beach was an offer too good to turn down; I accepted in a New York minute, happily trading balaclavas for bikinis, windburn for sunburn, and frozen dog-pee puddles for frozen daquiris.
There I was, mid-February, luxuriating on a padded lounge chair, glass of rosé in hand, excited to be living the next few months as a Miamian. What could be wrong? Well, I’ll tell you. Me. I was wrong. I was fish out of water. Miami was mine for the taking, but no one was taking to me. I wasn’t fitting in.
And that is how I found my way to the Miami Beach Makeover & Indoctrination Center, a highly air-conditioned, Art Deco-style convention hall replete with booths staffed by buff, tanned, highly tattooed men and women lifting barbells, or doing pull-ups, to the beat of pulsating electronic dance music.
“Welcome to the Information Desk and do that conga beat. How can I help?” asked a chipper young woman with eyelashes so thick she resembled Lambchop the puppet.
“Hi, I’m here for an appointment. I was told to bring a suitcase of my clothes for inspection??”
“Great. First, let’s get you out of that black leather jacket. Just toss it in this bin marked “New Yorkers.”
“Wow. I am from New York. How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess, maybe. And I watched you hip-check that old lady to get to the front of the line. Okay, let’s get started. First, here’s a pamphlet with 45 easy-to-follow selfie poses. Suitable for gyms, hotel lobbies, beaches, pools, boats, bicycles, public restrooms, restaurants, boardwalks, nightclubs, and Publix. We recommend 24 a day to start.
“Next, here’s a Miami-approved clothing color wheel. We suggest three categories of color only: sherbet, jewels, and animal prints. No more black clothing! Sherbet!”
“Sherbet?”
“Yes, sherbet. Pinks, yellows, lemon, lime, orange, watermelon, or mint. Your jewel colors are red, turquoise, purple and green. Animal print is self-explanatory and optimally, we like animal print in sherbet or jewel tones. Proceed to the next booth. Oh, and here are the phonetic lyrics to the Spanish section of Despacito. Have a Miami day!”
The next station was manned by a sequoia of a woman with skin the color of tree bark and dangly coconut earrings. Her name tag read “Mrs. Scissors.”
“Hi, I was told you’d help me with my clothing.”
Mrs. Scissors sifted through my suitcase with evident displeasure.
“What’s with all the black, honey? You in mourning? And oh boy. Look at these old granny bikini bottoms.”
“I just bought those.”
“Bad investment. Look toots, in Miami it’s ass-crack coverage only. Our motto is “No tax. What vax? And just cracks.”
Within seconds, giant shears appeared in Mrs. Scissor’s hands, her name now making horrifying sense, and I watched as she snipped, slashed, and sliced my bathing suit bottoms to remnants so narrow I could floss my teeth with the remaining shreds.
Mrs. Scissors, flushed with excitement (or perhaps Covid) now set her sights on my other garments.
“This is your problem, honey. These dresses need cutouts.”
“Need what?”
“Cutouts! Cutouts to show off your waist, your boobs, your back and belly. Backless, strapless, butt-baring. We like cleavage, side boob, under-boob, and preferably all at once. Slit to here, cut down to there. These dresses? What are you, in a religious cult? Who’s your stylist? Mrs. Doubtfire?”
I winced watching her, as if in a fever dream (or perhaps Covid) slash, slit, cut and, at one point, use a giant hole punch to perforate the remainder of my garments, drastically refashioning each to ensure the exposure of massive swaths of leg, tush, waist, back, belly and, I’m pretty sure, both breasts.
Suddenly, she stopped, holding one item aloft.
“Oh, look! You do have one dress that works. This is perfect!”
“That is a macrame plant hanger I bought for my mother.”
“Love it! Wear it to Joe’s Stone Crab. Let me have a go at the rest while you head to the next booth.”
Approaching the next booth, I was unexpectedly blinded by a flash of silver followed by a sharp, searing pain in my lips.
“OUCH! Was that a syringe? Did you just inject my lips???!!”
“Yes, doll. Expect those lips to blow up like pillows any minute.”
“I look like I was stung by 1000 bees!”
“Riiiggghhht? You’re welcome!!”
As my lips enlarged enough to be significantly blocking both nostrils, I wondered what could possibly await me next.
“Welcome to the Butt Enhancement booth. Please state that you understand the upcoming procedure and have no allergies to anesthesia.”
“Wrogntthus? Maxlequelidthos?”
“Ah, you must have just come from the lip plumper booth. I’ll note your approval. Please turn around, so I can see what we’re working with. Oh… my. You’re going to need the “Desk Job Droop Repair Deluxe.”
“Bhutshwsa.”
“No guarantees but we’ll do our best. You’ll be unconscious for a while, so we’ll use the down time for a spray tan and manicure to sharpen your fingernails into talons.”
Before you could say, Kardashian, I was out. When I awoke, I found myself blessed with a behind so round and ample, it made me literally dizzy with glee. Dizzy also, because, as it turns out, I am allergic to convention center anesthesia. And though it will be weeks before I can comfortably balance my derriere on my padded lounge chair, and my horse-riding dreams are forever dashed, I am thrilled with the result. Socially it has been such a transformation it makes me scratch my head…and by scratching my head, I mean scratching my corneas with my newly sharpened talon nails, but it's Miami, and that’s what sunglasses are for!
Thanks to my visit to the Miami Beach Makeover & Indoctrination Center, I feel like a bona fide Miamian. And while my Face ID no longer recognizes me and my dog barks at me like I’m a stranger, I finally fit in, which is all I was ever hoping for.
Shame to be going back to NY in just a few days. Not sure how to get my leather jacket back. Here’s hoping sherbet is the new black.
