Walking the ice-covered streets this frigid morning, afraid a single misstep would result in a Chaplin-esque tumble to the pavement, it occurred to me – we are only in our first month of winter. And, try as I might to be the eternal optimist, I fear, come February 2nd, the famous furry rodent will deliver grim news: six more weeks before warmer days are on the horizon.
I now understand the whole fly-south-for-the-winter-thing, I would make the trek too if I were a bird. Just think of it, free round-trip airfare without the concern of a canceled flight or loss of luggage – brilliant, I say!
Without a pair of wings of my own to whisk me away to a sandy-beached-blue-skied destination, I find myself searching continuously for a warm place to escape to, somewhere to defrost and melt away the cynicism that the minus temperatures have brought on.
Weighing the pros and cons of waiting out the winter in misery or making my way to a tropical locale, I have come to the conclusion that while I would gladly trade snowmen for sandcastles, mugs of hot chocolate for slushy beverages in hollowed-out coconuts, frozen pine trees for towering palms, there is one great thing about winter: it’s not swimsuit season!