Winter Staycation

This week, the population in my zip code will shrink considerably as a good percentage of my neighbors fly south for winter break. I will be able to stroll into any restaurant at any time and get fed immediately. I will be able to run into the local high end grocery store and have my number called before I have time to come to my senses and wonder why I would spend so much on a thimble full of pasta salad.

If the traffic situation in town is any indication, many of the snow birds have not yet left the nest. Even though the weather has been unseasonably warm for days, parking spaces remain empty a mere block or two from all the shops while long lines of cars clog narrow lanes to wait for spots that might open up within feet of the drivers' destinations. I shovel my own driveway now. I park off the beaten path. I have to admit it all makes me feel a little bit superior.

Given the choice, I have always preferred to tough out a bit more winter before I treat myself to long days of bone soothing warmth, but still, it's hard to avoid an occasional pang of jealousy every time I see a taxi pull up in someones driveway and pop open the trunk. Months of waning sun have left my skin dull and an odd shade of faded olive. I have thrown myself into a new skin care regimen, taking comfort in the notion that I am at least preserving the status quo as far as my wrinkles are concerned. The highly trained esthetician behind the counter assured me that all the peptides and enzymes and exotic sounding botanical extracts would literally glue the crevices in my cheeks together. She squeezed her fist for emphasis; it looked as if I would need a crowbar to pry her fingers apart. The glue has not worked as quickly as I had hoped on the crevices in my cheeks but I remain optimistic; at the very least, my face feels kind of sticky.

This weekend, while many of the neighboring nests have begun to empty, my new nest has had a bit of a population explosion. All three of my children have converged under my tiny roof. Unfamiliar jackets, wet from walks in the icy rain while the lesser souls await perfect parking spots, hang over the backs of every available chair and newel post. The driver's seat in my car never seems to be where I left it as offspring at opposite ends of the height spectrum take it for spins. As if the seat position isn't solid enough evidence of who drove last, the cranked up radio station that startles me when I turn on the ignition confirms my suspicions. I woke this morning to find a motley collection of blankets strewn in the vicinity of the family room couch and the detritus of late night snacks littering pretty much every surface in the kitchen. The dog is confused. I couldn't be happier.

For lunch yesterday, we dined at Chipotle because my son can't get Chipotle in Japan. For dinner we dined at the nearby Jewish-Mexican restaurant because, well, where else can you get delicious and authentic Mexican food in a place owned by Spanish speaking guys named Isaac and Moishe? Who needs the hassle of holiday travel to Puerto Vallarta with all these delicacies so close to home? If I get really desperate, I can always try a spray tan.

By the time all the snow birds return with their already fading tans, the fleeting swell in my nest will be gone. We will shrink back to normal size -- just me, one daughter, a blind dog. My son will be back on the other side of the planet, where burritos are painfully scarce but people seem to live really long. A diet of fish and rice may have something to do with that, but frankly I think longevity without a steady supply of Mexican food is highly overrated. My older daughter will return to her busy life and I will once again have to settle for an occasional quick visit and a lot of quick texts. My youngest will once again be stuck here without siblings to lean on as we recapture the still unfamiliar rhythm of our new household. She will count the days until she gets to fly off on her own; I will too, but probably with a bit more ambivalence.

I will begin to get over the pangs of jealousy as I see the taxis returning to the neighborhood and depositing all the weary travelers on their slushy doorsteps. I will get over my own shrunken nest, or at least get accustomed to it. My innate impatience will help me to save money at the overpriced local grocery store as the crowds reappear and I will feel even more superior than I do now when everybody is back in town and I have to park even farther away from where I need to be.

And I will look forward to my own escape to warmer climes in spring, an escape that will seem particularly sweet after months of snow shoveling and long cold walks. Mostly, I will look forward to the next time the population explodes in my house and it becomes filled with wet jackets and tossed blankets and dirty dishes and the sound of my three grown children laughing together -- even if it's about me.