Anywhere but Here

When I was sixteen, I saw California for the first time. I remember being blown away by the mountains, the climate, the ocean. After a week in la-la-land, I was convinced that someday it would be my home; that I would hightail it out of flat, frigid Illinois as soon as I was able. California had palm trees, movie stars, sandy beaches. In my teenage eyes, it was paradise. And I was determined I would one day take up residence.

Decades later, I'm still in the state of my birth and I can't explain why.

Don't get me wrong. Chicago is a great town - beautiful skyline, cultural opportunities up the wazoo and, despite Jon Stewart's tirade to the contrary, the best pizza this side of Naples. I love it. . .from April through October. After that, it slides down to Number 182 on my list of places in which I actually want to live, falling somewhere in between India and Iraq.

Today, the schools are closed for the third time this month, not for a snow day (although there's a ton of that on the ground) but for sub-zero temperatures. I believe the high will top out at -4 and the low will be a fit-for-polar-bears only -18. And like a bear, all I want to do is hibernate.  I put on my three sweaters and long underwear (even if I do not intend to venture out, it's the only think that keeps me warm) and spend as much time as I can huddled under a down comforter, pulling my hands out from under the covers only to change the channel on the remote or sip my hot chocolate.

This is no way to live - except for the hot chocolate.

After being lucky enough to have spent a week in Mexico, I know January doesn't have to look like this. There are places in this world whose residents never have to dig their way out of a two foot snow drift. I want to live in one of them. There are people in this world who get to wear shorts and walk on the beach almost every day of the year. I want to be one of them (except for the shorts thing - with my varicose veins, I should make it capris). There are better things to do than trying to figure out a way to get feeling back in my fingertips after walking to the mailbox. And I want to do them.

I know my California dream is dead - I refuse to spend $650,000 for a two bedroom bungalow that needs some TLC anyway. I know moving west was a foolish, young girl's dream. But this foolish, old girl still dreams. She dreams of escape - from December 26 until somewhere around April 1.

Spring, Summer, Fall. Escape. Those are four seasons I think I can live with.

Not Fearing the Worst

I've never been what you might call a brave person. I watch in awe as people schuss down mountains at warp speed, jump off bridges with nothing separating them from certain death but a giant rubber band, and get behind the wheel of a vehicle going three times the legal speed limit. After a lifetime of walking on the safe side of the street, it's a pretty safe bet that I'm not going to morph into some kind of risk-taking daredevil just because I have fewer years ahead of me than behind me. That would be too much to ask. No, all I can reasonably hope for is that I will stop giving fear the power to keep me from doing something I really want to do.

It's funny how many of those "getting out of your comfort zone" moments come while you're on vacation. Stepping away from your daily routine presents you with a boatload of opportunities to push yourself into uncomfortable territory. All of a sudden para-sailing sounds like a great idea and dining on grilled octopus sounds preferable to a perfectly seared New York Strip.  Oh, sure, you can grab a Big Mac while walking down the Champs E'lysee or hire a driver with an air-conditioned car to show you the sights you could explore on your own but chances are you'll regret it if you do.

On the fabulous winter getaway I wrote about last week, I went snorkeling. A non-swimmer and fearful of deep water, I was determined not to let that stop me from joining my friends on their afternoon excursion. Seeing the tiny boat that was going to transport us out to the reef, I almost bailed. Learning that I would have to jump off the side of said boat into the open sea was almost a deal breaker (I don't know how else I thought I was going to get in with those damn fins on my feet) but, with the help of my very supportive friends and an amazingly patient guide, I did it.  I freaked out a few times and swallowed enough sea water to earn a set of gills but when it was all over, the rush of having conquered one of my most deep-seeded fears stayed with me for the rest of the day and even now is helping to convince me I'm not quite the wuss I thought I was.

So, what now? What scary activity will my new-found maturity and wisdom enable me to cross off my "To Don't" list next? Sky-diving? White-water rafting? Bungee jumping?

If I were you, I wouldn't bet on any of the above. I may be trying to conquer a few fears but I'm not crazy.

Same Time Next Year

The rest of the world thinks we're nuts. That's right. Nuts. Countries from Austria to Zambia shake their collective heads in disbelief at a lot of stuff they see us do but one of the things that dumbfound them the most is the limited vacation time allotted to American employees. While other workers on this planet start their employment with three to four weeks vacation time and work their way up to as many as six, we settle for one measly week until that magical one year anniversary at which time we're lucky enough to get handed one more.

This is something our fellow Earthlings can not understand. And I can't say I blame them.

Yesterday, I was walking on the beach in my shorts, sipping a Pina Colada. Today, I'm back to temperatures in the teens, putting away the last of the Christmas decorations. I had seven days to get away. And while it sucks to be back, I know how lucky I am to have had the week I had.

For the first time, my husband and I got the chance to spend seven mostly sunny, laugh-filled, tropical drink-laced days with our six closest friends. The eight of us have shared everything from our own engagements to the weddings of our children. We've been there to support each other through job changes, miscarriages, marital struggles and the losses of parents. This week was a long time coming. And we were going to savor every minute of those seven days.

So maybe that's how we do it. Since we don't have the luxury of three or four weeks off at a time like our European counterparts, we have to be creative about making our time off count. And if you have a group of friends like I do, it's easy. It really wouldn't have mattered if we had hunkered down for a week at the Springfield Holiday Inn (although I have to say that Mexico was a lot prettier and a whole lot warmer). We would have had a blast wherever we went and we would have come back relaxed, recharged and eternally grateful to be blessed with people in our lives that always have had and always will have your back.

And if any of my fellow Earthlings want to see what one puny week away can accomplish, head south of the border next year around this time (oh, yeah, we're doing this again) and watch us in action.

We'll be floating together somewhere in the vicinity of the swim-up bar.