Florida’s got nuthin’ on NY

ENOUGH with people schlepping to Florida. Florida began 1,400 years ago. Nobody younger has been there since. Those in the state now could’ve been original settlers. Their average age is deceased.

Reports of how wonderful the place is start mouthing the minute transplants leave the JetBlue restroom. It’s got beaches. Sand. Sky. Ocean. Warmth. Hurricanes. Galleries. Crocodiles.

Also palms. Not leafy ones that provide shade for juniors. Outstretched ones that provide service for seniors. These palms have specific assignments. Like driving Madam’s car by day. By night just simply driving Madam.

Me, I’m a New Yorker. Born, bred, educated, schooled, work in New York. Even my dog’s a Yorkie. Never leave. Should — pardon the vulgarity — deBlasio and his mathematically enhanced wife come back, I’d still be here. Those cheapo Dutchmen who bought the place a few hundred years ago didn’t love this city more.

Transplants to Florida first learn the word “condo.” Next requirement is thinning blond hair and fat sequins. It’s book clubs, bridge clubs, garden clubs, art shows, tea, brunch, lunch, cocktails, drop-ins, manicures, coffees, cocktails, card games, shop openings, talks, fund-raisers, finger food at my condo, cheese and crackers at yours.

Late dinner reservations are 5 p.m. By 7:15 restaurants are already resetting for prunes and oatmeal.

New transplants are busy. Gents pull on green-andwhite checked pants for golf. Ladies do Botox, doctor appointments or hospital benefits. And the conversation? “You know how cold it is in New York?”

Their friends up north have already gone on to that great big warehouse in the sky. So, there’s no longer jobs to go to. With Social Security comes no appointments to keep. No assistants to harangue. No bosses to placate. No calls to return. No deals to make. Florida is the usedto-bes heavy-duty BS.

Forget Mother Nature. It’s Father Time. Talk is how VIP they once were.

Question: How often can you discuss your favorite actress — Lana Turner?