becoming an islander

The heart of a native Chicagoan still beats within as I fuel the day with coffee, check the morning news religiously, and on a good day can still work a room with as much forced charm as an introvert can muster and cheese their way through. The life of a Colorado hippie has weathered me to opt for almond milk, read instead of watch TV, and listen, swaying to acoustical wonders. But I'm also becoming a little more of an islander every month here.

I was realizing this when I spent an entire afternoon in a bikini without self-consciousness. This feat has never before been possible as I would have sucked in my stomach and folded my arms protectively around my fleshy middle. Here it's just too hot, and I can see everybody is a little imperfect. I've traded wine for iced vodka drinks, and a very nice shoe collection for flip flops always.  I own a bike with a basket that has earned the status of living indoors to prevent the rust that forms almost instantly here.

Attempts at hair fixing are mostly in vain here as the humidity forms it's own curls, waves, and shapes. The Saturday plan is always lay on the beach or by the pool. The outfit is always sundress or strapless shirts. And I have found myself using the ubiquitous island phrase I think maybe... as a gentle preview to introducing opinions.