I'd love to be on an island right now. Or a mountain. Or anyplace not gloppy.

Instead, I'm sitting in a Midwest coffee shop, 851 feet above sea level, watching another greasy winter rain goopify what little snow we've had this year. 

I know there are people freediving technicolor reefs this very second. I know there are people riding hidden glades of powder. I know these things because I can see them from my rigid chair. I can see every one of their posts and boasts and aprés toasts.  Based on their social feeds, it seems they're having a gangbuster time. And they really want me to know about it. Bastards.

But I know something they don't.