Hot Tub Dreams

Here in Maine it is snowing for the second day in a row, and I am pissed about it. All the true Mainers are ecstatic that winter has finally arrived. My neighbors glide by on their snowshoes and their skate skis, huffing and puffing in the frigid air, making me feel like the loser from Brooklyn that I truly am. But hey, I'm writing a book, so sue me -- I've got it going on.

Still, I'm beginning to understand why all the Jews move south when they hit a certain age. Why there are so many delis in Boca. And golf courses. Suddenly I'm ready to trade in four or five blizzards per year for a couple of Category 3 hurricanes. But not today.

Today I shoveled a path to our hot tub, climbed in, closed my eyes and fantasized. About the hot sand under my feet and the sound of the pounding surf. Finding seashells on the beach. Palm trees bending over, artfully, in those strong breezes coming off the ocean. Kites. Dogs chasing the tides, in and then out again. Lazing under those blue-and-white-striped cabanas we rented when we were in Deerfield Beach the last time. I threw in a couple of mojitos and some conch fritters from Key West just for fun. The smell of sunscreen. Heck, even the sound of all the air conditioners seemed appealing, a hum rather than a racket in this particular fantasy. It worked for awhile, but then it started snowing harder.

"Be here now," I keep telling myself. Be here now. Be here -- in the snow and the ice and the frigid temperatures and the shoveling and the poor cat can't go outside -- now (and for the next few months).

I may need a new mantra.