There comes a time in every woman’s life—usually somewhere between her metabolism’s final farewell and the third installment of “how is my neck doing that?”—when she gives up on conventional pizza.
Not because she wants to. Oh no. But because she’s been betrayed. By her pancreas. Her digestive tract. Her own traitorous gut lining.
This is my story.
Now, before we go any further, let me set the tone: I’m a Florida-based, over-40, solo female traveler whose idea of adventure includes stopping at every Buc-ee’s and rating the bathroom tile, dodging snowbirds in Publix parking lots like a ninja, and packing antacids like they’re treasure. I don’t hike. I don’t camp. And I sure as hell don’t eat gluten without a waiver and a farewell letter to my intestines.
I used to be a thick-crust queen. Give me that deep-dish delight with 900 layers of glutenous glory and marinara so thick it required a flotation device. I believed thin crust was a scam. A carb-deprived conspiracy. A dystopian betrayal of dough integrity. But now?
Now my innards light up like an amateur firework show at a Florida man’s backyard BBQ if I even look at a thick crust. So, I’ve entered the era of “I guess I’ll have the thin crust... again.”
But let me tell you, even thin crust has its limits. Especially when you’re traveling through Florida—land of theme parks, gator nuggets, and questionable pizza slices under heat lamps older than your high school diary.
So, I’ve resorted to the only pizza I truly trust these days: the frozen four-pack.
Yes, honey. The ones that come in a cardboard coffin and taste like your middle school cafeteria served you a hot hug wrapped in regret. But damn it, they’re delicious. Or at least, safe. Safe from the betrayal of real pizza.
Let me take you on a journey. Not through scenic coastlines or quaint downtown districts (although those are great too), but through the true Florida solo travel experience: driving through the state with a mini toaster oven in your Kia, making sad little pizzas while watching documentaries about the fall of Rome in your back seat.
Day 1: Naples to Nowhere
I rolled into Naples, Florida, in my glorified grocery cart of a Kia (her name is Candice, and she leaks, emotionally and mechanically), thinking I might stop at some trendy pizzeria. You know, maybe something artisanal with “wood-fired” in the name and an $18 kale side salad.
But one look at the crowd—young couples, dogs with better accessories than me, waiters with ironic mustaches—and I turned around so fast I got whiplash.
Back to Candice. Toaster oven plugged into the Jackery and turned on. One frozen four-pack pizza, slid in like a love letter to myself. The smell of partially hydrogenated oils filled the air, and suddenly I was 13 again, burning my tongue on cafeteria pizza and pretending I didn’t have scoliosis.
Bliss.
Day 3: Ocala National Forest (aka The Middle of Nowhere)
My friends (the ones with gym memberships and collagen powders) always ask me, “Don’t you miss ordering out? Trying new places?”
Oh, sweet naive Becky. I used to. Until I learned that ordering pizza as an over-40 woman with insulin resistance is like playing Russian Roulette with your digestive system.
So there I was, parked in Ocala, surrounded by majestic trees, wild silence, and one particularly judgmental raccoon who watched me eat pizza like I owed him money.
The toaster oven hissed. I scraped bubbling cheese off the top with my finger like it was caviar. The center was lava. My gums were singed. I smiled like a lunatic.
Because this—THIS—was freedom.
Day 5: Orlando Pit Stop and Pizza Purgatory
Orlando is chaos. Children scream in 87 different languages, traffic moves like molasses, and every restaurant has a waitlist longer than your last situationship. I gave up on trying to park anywhere near civilization and instead parked Bertha at a rest stop, pulled out my precious four-pack, and plugged in the toaster oven like I was prepping for a cooking show called “Midlife Melts.”
As the pizza cooked, I watched a documentary about Rasputin. Seemed fitting. That man wouldn’t die, and neither would my obsession with this gloriously mediocre frozen pizza.
Day 7: Sarasota and Thin-Crust Betrayal
I tried to be brave. I went to a restaurant. They had a “gluten-sensitive” menu, which is like saying, “We sort of care about your digestive trauma, but not enough to avoid cross-contamination.”
I ordered the thin-crust veggie pizza. Took one bite. It was soggy. Wet, limp, and utterly spineless—like my last three dating attempts.
I took it back to Candice, wrapped it in a napkin like a wounded soldier, and slid it into the trash with a single tear.
Then I made the real stuff. My toaster oven pizza. Reliable. Slightly carcinogenic. Full of soul.
Day 9: Keys and Cheese
In the Keys, everyone is half-naked, sunburnt, and slightly drunk. I fit right in, minus the tequila. But after kayaking (read: floating in a rented plastic banana and wondering how many gators were watching me), I came back starving.
Microwaves are for amateurs. Real pizza happens in a toaster oven that’s been with you through breakups, bad haircuts, and self-inflicted bangs.
This time I got fancy. I added some red pepper flakes and called it “artisanal.” The dogs stared at me like I was eating filet mignon. I ate it in a swimsuit, in a folding chair, feeling like a queen who rules over cheese and regret.
Final Day: Return to Nowhere and Full Circle Pizza
I pulled back into my driveway, Candice wheezing and me smelling like garlic and poor decisions. My freezer was empty. My cheese was low. But my soul? Full.
This is what travel in your 40s looks like when you’re bloated, burned out on trends, and blissfully single:
Not chasing five-star Yelp reviews or artisanal sourdough crusts.
Not trying to eat like a TikTok nutritionist.
Not pretending cauliflower crust is pizza. (It’s not. It’s a lie. A slander. A vegetable pretending to be fun.)
It’s about knowing yourself. Loving yourself. Feeding yourself greasy, crispy, comfort-loaded pizza from a box. Watching war documentaries while your dog gives you judgmental side-eye and trying not to scald the roof of your mouth so you can taste again by Tuesday.
That’s real travel, baby.
The Moral of the Story?
Sometimes the best travel companion is a plug-in toaster oven and a good supply of burn ointment for your mouth.
Sometimes the only five-star experience you need is the moment you burn your finger scooping bubbling fake cheese into your face while watching Napoleon get exiled.
And sometimes, being over 40 means doing things your way—on the road, with the windows down, the pizza crispy, and the only “dough” you care about being the kind you didn’t overpay for in a trendy restaurant with moody lighting.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to restock my four-pack supply. The open road (and a deeply emotional history of gastrointestinal compromise) awaits.
And yes, Becky. I am still eating pizza. But I’m doing it my way.
Deal with it.
About Amber:
A midlife solo female traveler who swears by sarcasm, seat warmers, and sodium. Florida’s roads are her playground, her pizza is prepackaged, and her dreams come with cheese.