Punch it, Marge.

I'm turning into an old lady.
      No. This is not a reference to my impending birthday of the two-score-and-seven-minutes-ago variety.
But I seem to have imposed a 10-mile radius on myself in terms of how far I'm willing to go for just about anything.

I get emails from those deal-a-day things that offer you big discounts for stuff you probably wouldn't have bought in the first place, but, what the heck, it's 60% off at a restaurant I've never been to and might, in fact, suck. I open most of them, but if I see the words "Tampa" or "St. Petersburg" I immediately trash it with the epithet:
"Like I'm going to drive to Tampa for a pedicure/nose job/barrel of olives.  I can get that down the street."

It's as though Tampa were on the actual hinges of Hell.  I have said aloud to someone recently: "I don't go to Tampa for anything but the airport.  Or Crate and Barrel."
So you can see where my priorities lie. Browsing overpriced kitchenware: yes. Spa services: no.

I feel the same way about Miami. What's the big?  We have beaches here.  With tourists. And little shops with overpriced scholck.  And restaurants that empty out right onto the sand.  Why would I drive 5 hours for more of what I have right here.  And, incidentally, don't go to unless I have family visiting.  Did I mention the tourists?  You can't get a parking place.

But regarding my 10-mile radius, I think I may be channeling the previous owner of my car.  I bought this 10-year-old station wagon 2 years ago after I wrecked my initial car of the same model. It had less than half the miles of my car, which was 2 years younger; clearly owned by an old lady who kept it in her garage except when she went to the hair dresser's 2 blocks away.  I assume it was an old lady because it still smells like potpourri.  Plus, it's a station wagon.  I've named it.  I'm not sorry.

I would like to get rid of that weird coconut scent, though.