When you move across the country away from your ride-or-die friends and family, people warn you about missing birthdays, time zone differences, and the ache of watching everyone else gather without you.

What they don’t tell you? Moving is basically one long string of awkward first dates: some promising, some weird, some that leave you questioning all your life choices.

First up: the grocery store date (no Trader Joe’s nearby). I walked in thinking we’d have an easy connection. Spoiler alert: we didn’t. The layout made no sense, the produce looked suspiciously waxed, and I left without half my list. No second date here. Target grocery remains my loyal back-up plan.

Then came the golf course date. I showed up expecting George Clooney: smooth, confident, and easy on the eyes. What I got was Ross Schwimmer: a little awkward and not so charming. The weather was good, the greens were nice, and my swing was… let’s say “not lovable.” Not a total bust, but I’m still holding out for the Clooney round.

The beach date was everything good: soft sand, warm water, and zero small talk required. That one went straight to my favorites list, and I’ve been shamelessly seeing other beaches almost every week since.

Not all dates are winners. The DMV stood me up for hours. The Whole Foods here? Think less sprawling wonderland and more studio apartment-sized. And the pedicure at a local nail salon? The fastest one I’ve ever had, wrapped up in under 20 minutes. Blink and you’ll miss it.

And then there’s the restaurant bar circuit, my social experiment in progress. If I’m going to meet someone (and by “someone,” I mean a future Mr. Right candidate), it’s probably not happening at Pilates class. Love my reformer, but it’s mostly women who can plank for seven minutes straight, impressive and terrifying. So, I’ve been pulling up a stool at local spots, sipping something cold, and practicing my “I’m new here” smile.

Here’s what I’ve learned so far:

The Golf Club Bar – Charming, polished, and ready to offer advice over a dirty martini. First tip? “Don’t date anyone in our neighborhood — it’s all drama.” Said like a warning about rip currents.

The Tiki Lounge – Palm trees, umbrella drinks, and a reggae artist playing live. Somehow, in a room full of flip-flops and sundresses, I met the only biker in the place. He grilled me like a secret service agent but ended up being a one-man welcome committee with the inside scoop on town.

The Italian Bistro Across the Street – Always packed, always buzzing. I finally saddled up to the bar, thinking I’d found my neighborhood spot. Then… déjà vu. There was my golf club bar acquaintance, the one who warned me about local drama, openly flirting with the very drama he warned me about.

Here’s the thing: when you’re building a life in a new place, you have to flirt a little…with the town, the beaches, the sunset spots, and yes, even the restaurant bar regulars until something clicks. Until you stop feeling like a tourist and start feeling like maybe, just maybe, you’re home.

For now, I am dating Florida, it’s a fun adventure but not making any long term commitments quite yet.