A glorious Wednesday means another glorious Sunday staples– I’m a (few) day(s) late, yes, but I’m in the South (Florida), where I’ve been told that everything moves slower (and if you’re a follower of this weekly bile I call writing then, yes, I did bring my Chucks).  Originally, I thought I’d write about my revered collection of turtlenecks, but given that they’re across the country – as well as nonexistent; think I’d wear a turtleneck? – I’ll opt for some more appropriate: southern staples, perfect for not frying under a scalding sun…

…Or under a sun too lazy to peek out from behind the clouds, i.e. the current case, which I write about under great duress (I cant’ even golf without a pullover, brah).  But, regardless of outside conditions, a crowd favorite seems to be patterned shorts, usually of the plaid variant.  Granted,  my place of stay is predominately senior citizens, so I’d hate to ascribe the quality of goofy-shorts wearing to all Floridians; as they all golf, however (from what I’ve observed), I feel safe behind that assertion.  Anticipating this, and hating to stick out, I packed a pair of critter shorts from J.Crew- white with black lobsters; admittedly, I’m a bit self-conscious walking around with a petting zoo hugging my hips, especially when I’m the only one in the resort wearing a pair; I remain hopeful, though, that I’m not the only crustacean-centric…(alliteration spiraling out of control) shorts wearer.

Mermaids. Pleasant.

(above image from Vineyard Vines)

The classic cotton polo can’t escape mention, either.   Nothing un-exacerbates the miserableness of a muggy round of golf like a breathable polo; I shot a 58, 49, take-your-best-guess on nine holes this morning in a  black, minimal polo from Brooklyn Industries.   Polo, Lacoste, and an alien outfit called “Tommy Bahama” claim popularity in this land; what I haven’t seen, though, are popped collars, a seemingly convenient defense against the brilliant Florida sun.  Garish, yeah, but leaving a tender, pasty Midwest neck exposed to ye orb of mighty light is akin to racing the Iditarod in a windbreaker. And, since I’ve never raced the Iditarod in a windbreaker, I’ll brave aesthetic foolhardiness and raise my collar the three inch neck-grazing salute it deserves.   As for patterns, I’ll tread with caution, for fear of stealing the spotlight from our boy Jesper.

A collection of southern staples is, naturally, incomplete  without proper sunglasses.  I left the (fake) Oakleys on the bench for this trip, as they’re only necessary for playing sports or looking like a jackass (paired with a Bluetooth).  Sleeping poolside begs tamer shades, like wayfarers or aviators.  I’ve heard through the wives-tale rumor mill, though, to avoid fakes, as they fool the vulnerable eye into believing it’s receiving protection from the sun, when, in optometric actuality, it’s not.  Sadly, and hypocritically, I was getting by  on a pair of gas-station mock Ray-Bans until recently losing them.  I have a birthday coming up in a month, though- take note, legion of readers!

Your attention span and tolerance is limited, so I’ll reel off a few more recommendations: a white, pique Lacoste baseball hat ideal for shuffleboard; slim, non-baggy swim trucks for a streamlined dip in the ocean; an oxford button-down for a casual dip in the ocean to cool off from a casual match of shuffleboard.  Next week: Midwest staples, which will (providing a hint on which everyone will wait with more baited breath), rhyme with schmarka, schmloves, and central heating.