I used to like winter. I used to say things like, “I could never live in Florida or Arizona. I’m definitely a ‘four seasons’ kind of gal.”

I used to complain about not having REAL winters any more – the kind with snow and ice, and sledding, and multiple days off from school.

“Those were the days, my friend,” I’d declare to anyone who’d listen.

I used to be a real idiot.

I remember, back in December, when I jumped up and down the first time snow was in the forecast. This week, when flakes fell from the sky – again! – I cussed like a freakin’ sailor.

Pre-Christmas, I poured my first cup of hot tea for the season and thought, “How cozy! I can’t wait to cuddle up by the fire.” Here it is, not even the end of February, and I’ve drunk enough hot liquids to sink a dinghy. My fireplace is spilling over with soot. And if I never hear the word “cozy” again, it will be 20 years too soon.

In this very space a couple of months ago, I sang the praises of a good winter storm with heartfelt, unbridled enthusiasm. I confessed my obsession with The Weather Channel and my unrequited love for that intrepid meteorologist, Jim Cantore.

What was I thinking?

No need to check the record books. This has been the LONGEST, COLDEST winter. EVER. And I’ve had it up to HERE with it. (You can sense the scope of my frustration by all the uppercase letters I’m using.)

Obviously, I’m suffering from EWB, also known as Endless Winter Blues.

A recent addition to the modern menu of diseases, syndromes and disorders, EWB’s symptoms are universal and easy to identify:

¢ Depression (the patient will sigh or grunt verses saying “hello”).

¢ Anxiety (especially in the morning when forced to abandon a warm bed).

¢ Cold or numb digits that haven’t thawed in at least 60 days.

¢ An unexplained propensity for hoarding lap blankets.

¢ Inability to maneuver around potholes without screaming.

¢ An irrepressible desire to move to Miami and learn Mahjong

¢ Anger or resentment toward friends who travel to warmer climes and return with tanned limbs and smiles on their smug little faces.

¢ Abnormal cravings for caffeine, chocolate, carbohydrates and Kahlua.

¢ Homicidal feelings toward a husband who won’t let you back out of the driveway on virgin snow because “it’s much harder to shovel snow that’s been packed underneath tires and, by the way, don’t get the mail until I get to the sidewalk, too.” (OK, that one may not be so universal. But, I ask you, what kind of a nut has “snow rules”? The man lives to shovel!)

I suspect just about everyone I encounter these days is afflicted with some form of EWB. (I don’t want to point fingers, but some of you are developing an eerie resemblance to the maniacal Jack Nicholson character in “The Shining” – “Heeeeeere’s Johnny!”) If it doesn’t warm up soon, I fear we all might have a massive, simultaneous breakdown, bringing the local economy to a screeching halt, not to mention the traffic.

Some say the increased incidence of EWB is because, for the first time in decades, we are having a REAL winter – a lip-chapping, parka-wearing, mind-numbing cold season. In past years, we’d be spying crocus in the ground by now. College kids would be traipsing around in flip-flops, sporting pre-spring break tans. The rest of us would be taking our coats to the cleaners and putting jean jackets back in the rotation.

Not this year.

Which is why I’m rethinking the whole “four seasons kind of gal” thing.

I’m starting to see myself as one of those “snowbirds” – the migratory folks who flee their nests in the north each winter for card games on the beach or shuffleboard in the desert.

I know, I know. At 52, I’m a tad young for the Sun City crowd. But don’t underestimate my motivation. I am FED UP with winter. The idea of taking water aerobics classes in Boca Raton, surrounded by ladies 30 years my senior, sounds very appealing right now. Besides, I love bingo, and I’ve always wanted to learn bridge.

But what would my husband do to pass the time, you ask? No worries.

Think of all that virgin sand he’d get to shovel.