Good morning, snowbirds. All packed up? Got your Tommy Bahama swim trunks with the big yellow birds on them? Got your black socks for the beach, your lucky five iron and something to read on the plane?

Ah, life is good. You’ve got a belly full of Maine lobster and some nice snapshots from Bar Harbor. You’ve got Popham sand in your shorts and a goofy stuffed moose you won at Old Orchard. That will be a big hit with the neighbors in St. Pete. Or Phoenix. Or Palm Springs. You’ve got the best of both worlds, really. You’ve got it made.

Bastard.

I’m sorry. It’s not that I’m jealous, I swear. It’s just that I’m consumed by a gnawing sense of envy so great, I chipped three teeth by clenching them so tightly and I can taste bile rising in the back of my throat.

It is my ardent dream to become one of you, a snowbird who reads about bitter cold winters in the newspaper whilst sitting on the veranda. I have no real idea what a veranda is, but I want to sit on one very badly. I want to frown at the newspaper and mutter things like “those poor folks back in Maine. They got another 18 inches last night,” before excusing myself to go laugh hysterically in the pool house.

I want to be one of those guys who doesn’t give a damn what color the leaves are on the trees. The only thing I want to be concerned with come late September is whether I have a window or an aisle seat on the flight back to Apache Junction.

Ah, the snowbird dream. I used to figure I’d stay in Maine until the first of November. Enjoy foliage season, celebrate Halloween New England style, experience some of the joys of autumn before flying away.

Seriously, what was I huffing back then? In retrospect, I don’t want to be around for any kind of nip in the air. I don’t want to smell woodsmoke or see those stupid corn stalks hanging on front doors. While everyone else is shopping for heating oil, I’d rather be deliberating over whether I need SPF 100 in my sunscreen or something milder.

No, forget November. I’m thinking the second week in September sounds more like the time to head south or west. The first time I see a puff of breath in the air, it will be a cue to fly the friendly skies.

I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m overestimating the value of spending winters in a warmer place. “But, Mark,” you say through clogged sinuses, the result of an early December flu. “You might actually enjoy a Maine winter if you’d just get out there and have some fun.”

You’d say more, but for the next five minutes, you’re doubled over with a coughing fit, spraying flu germs all over the floor and hallucinating with fever.

Have some fun, you say. Well, I tried snowmobiling but didn’t care for it. I like the thrill of speed and all, but you just can’t go fast enough to forget that it’s 10 icy degrees with a wind chill of around a zillion below. Stop for one minute to enjoy the ice-encrusted landscape and you’ll get frostbite and die in the woods.

Skiing? Can’t afford it. Look stupid in hats. Look even stupider with a giant red nose. Don’t care to lug equipment up a hill for an hour so I can spend three minutes gliding back down. Did that in grade school. Didn’t care for it then, either.

I don’t like snowshoeing and nobody plays pond hockey anymore. The last snowman I built was inadvertently constructed on an old burial site and it became cursed and bit me. Nasty incident. I don’t like to talk about it.

Some people are designed for sand and heat instead of snow and wind burn. It’s that simple. And that’s why you blessed snowbirds are reading this on your Crackberries while soaring off to your personal winter paradise. It’s your reward for a life of hard work and thriftiness, and I don’t begrudge you. I don’t begrudge you at all. I just feel you shouldn’t be allowed to leave if I can’t come with you.

But I’ll put aside those feelings for now and wish you a happy departure. I hope your flight is a happy one, with nothing but blue skies and short lines in the terminals. Did you remember to pack your brimmed hat and extra lotion? You know how you tend to flake in the sun.

Goodbye, snowbirds, I’ll miss you over the next seven months even as I covet your lifestyle from my igloo. Take care. Have fun. Be safe.

And keep your eye on your veranda, you lucky son-of-a-Boca. As soon as I figure out what it is, I’m moving into it.