In Which I Cheat on Gladis

I’m not quite retired, but I have already achieved the gold standard of old-personhood: I have my own golf cart.

Not permanently – just for the next few months. I have settled into a community near the beach in South Carolina (the actual beach is 3 blocks away) in a tiny bungalow, the rental of which comes with a zippy little black and red golf cart.

I just needed a break after a year spent largely on the road. I need to see a dentist and get some physical therapy on my ouchie arm and take real showers in my own shower. And I wanted to spend the long, dark nights of winter somewhere other than an RV park.

I liked Myrtle beach, and when I found that rent here is about 25% of what it is in Ventura, I started looking around and after only about 6 hours on the phone (this is the South, y’all. Dang, people like to chat.), I found myself a little place with a porch as big as the actual home. I can sit in a porch swing or porch Adirondack chairs or porch rockers or the porch picnic table.

I can zip down to the rec center or to the onsite restaurants or to the Walmart across the way in the golf cart. I can even go to church on the golf cart!

I thought the golf cart would be hard to drive – I have to park it with extreme care in a tiny shay-ed (I mean shed), but it turns out driving a very large vehicle makes driving a tiny one incredibly easy.

So grab your windbreaker and hop on. We’re going for a ride.