Everyone's always pointing out that you can't choose your family. Less often stated and far more tragic is that you can't choose where your family lives.
So I was in that town over Thanksgiving weekend. My friend and I (and about ten million other lemmings) ventured down to the beach on Friday. And I was struck, with slightly more force than usual, by the lengths that people will go to ensure that they look, act, and dress exactly like all the other people. In that packed, homogeneous crowd, if you lost your spouse or your kids or your car, how could you ever find them again? And if you latched onto the wrong ones (an entirely understandable mistake) would it even matter? If you drove to the wrong new construction monstrosity in the wrong SUV with the wrong black-fleece-and-sunglasses clad man or the wrong pinched-face, 110-lb woman, while the wrong pink-Ugg-wearing little girls sat making fun of their less cool classmates in the back seat...when would you notice?
I don't know whether to be angry that the rest of Connecticut gets a bad reputation nation-wide because of these people, or to be happy that my imperfect presence at their post-holiday