Jake Keiser - Daffodil Hill: Uprooting My Life, Buying a Farm, and Learning to Bloom

I planned each outfit the way celebrity stylists plan for the Oscars. Boats and yachts meant cover-ups and hats. Polo, depending on the side of the field, meant upscale picnic or Kentucky Derby chic. Girls nights out meant, well, Prada, Dior, Gucci, or some other fashionable designer. Tampa Bay was rich with see-and-be-seen events, and I lived two blocks away from everything: bars, restaurants, dress shops, a high-end movie theater, and a farmers market.

It was a warm, sticky October Saturday, and I was returning home with my typical farmers market haul of fresh cut flowers, vegetables, handmade porcini pasta, and free-range eggs. The cruelty-free movement spoke to me, but I couldnt help wishing that the splotched, irregularly sized eggshells had the same pristine uniformity as the kind in the grocery store.

As I entered my apartment, a strong odor of fish smacked me in the face. I drew a breath through my mouth and greeted my little designer dog, Kahuna. Kahuna was an eight-year-old, seven-pound black Yorkie-poo whod been with me since he was a puppy, ever since my divorce. I gave him a kiss while searching for air spray, scanning the shelves, the countertop, the dinette. The scent was intense. The Spanish-style detailing and soaring ceilings made the place feel like home, but I couldnt change the fact that my apartment was sandwiched between two undesirables: to the left, a lady with a knack for stinking up the building with her cooking; and to the right, a single man with a parade of partners almost nightly. Air spray, earplugs, and a noise-canceling app had become necessary quality-of-life items.

My heartbeat quickened from anxiety as I rushed from room to room. I hated to be late to anything, but I also didnt want to smell like my neighbors fish dinner. Finally, I spotted the can and walked around spraying while wiggling out of my romper. Glancing at my phone to check the time, I dashed to my closet. There wasnt a second to lose. I had brunch with the girls. Ten minutes until youre late, I sang to myself, trying not to work up a sweat in the Florida humidity. The very idea of not being on time made my lungs feel like they were filled with cement. These days, everything triggered my anxiety. But instead of crumbling under the weight, I forced myself to take a deep breath, and when I threw open my wardrobe doors, the pressure lifted. My clothes hung neatly in a row. I took a mental inventory, pairing each potential outfit with complementing accessories, from over-the-top baubles to delicate heirloom pieces. In the Tampa social scene, fashion was as much a sport as it was a science. Keeping up appearances required not only an expert knowledge of the playing field, but also a well-developed understanding of weather patterns.

I pushed past the understated Burberry and brightly colored Versace, and then my eyes landed on the perfect mix of form and function. We have a winner! I said to Kahuna, shimmying into an easy black maxi dress made even more perfect by a pair of hidden pockets. With a simple base, I layered on the silver statement jewelry I had purchased in Mexico, black Prada slippers, and Chanel sunglasses. After fluffing my long, chocolate brown hair, I twirled in front of the mirror, appraising the comfortable yet effortlessly sophisticated look. With a parting smile, I scooped up Kahuna and grabbed my key chain, heavy with keys.

Racing from one temperature-controlled environment to another, I moved from the lobby, to the car, to the restaurant. I arrived with five minutes to spare, the first of the group to the table, a critical bit of social maneuvering. As every socialite and Mafioso knows, having the best seat is vitally important. With a prime position, I not only had the best view of the scenery, but also a strategic advantage should an ex or a frenemy walk through the door. Id see them before theyd see me.

After settling in and ordering a Bloody Mary, I pulled out my phone. In the three minutes since Id last checked, Id racked up thirteen missed texts. All from her. Laura. The reality TV starlet.

I took repeated deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. This was de rigueur. This was my job. I was a publicist, and she needed publicity. But did that mean I had to sacrifice my nights, weekends, and every available moment? Her never-ending calls, texts, and emails were starting to give me gray hair. I was going to have to increase my Botox dosage just to keep the worry lines at bay. She paid well, sure, but was it worth it when most of the money went toward covering the very spa treatments she drove me to need?

After shooting off a couple of messages, I attempted to ignore the magnetic pull of the flashing notification. It was a sunny, mild day, and I vowed I would relax. Defying the vibration, I turned my chair to the side, making sure to stay under the giant umbrella. I loved the sun but preferred to keep my fake tan out of its reach. Freckles were not my friend. On point, the server brought Kahuna a fresh bowl of chilled water along with my Bloody Mary. I made a mental note to increase his tip.