It is better in Florida than it is here. Of this I am certain.
Looking out the window today, at the damp gray sky where dreariness hangs like a tangible thing; I'd gladly jump ship and head south. In Florida, the days are bright and sunny, the sky a piercing blue so sharp it's almost painful. The scenery is verdant, the air warm and comforting.
We stayed at Sean's aunt's condo while we were visiting, easily the youngest people in the development by 50 years. Or more. But there were palm trees with Christmas lights wound whimsically around them, and the shrubs that flanked the buildings were hibiscus exploding with crimson and orange blossoms. The ocean smelled sweet and fresh, brilliant turqoise froth that lapped at your toes and beckoned gently. The sand was warm and soft and white, clean enough that you really didn't mind having to avoid the glassy blue man o' war jellyfish.
I dug my toes in and watched the waves swirl around them, hissing at my feet. There were at least a million stars gleaming in the sky.
I didn't want to come back.
It would be the same if we lived here, Sean protested on a Sunday. We'd be getting ready for work now, we'd have to get up and go to work tomorrow. We'd never be able to find a movie theater that was showing Lost in Translation.
But it would be 77 degrees when we got home from work, I said quietly. It would still be light at 5:45. There would be...color. And Netflix.
I don't really want to live in Florida. But right now, watching the sleet pound the office window, knowing it won't be fit to be outdoors for at least another 3 months, I sure as hell don't want to live here.