Forty-eight hours. Two days. 2880 minutes. That's a pretty short period of time in the overall scheme of things. Yet sometimes, 48 hours is a lifetime.
48 hours ago I was in sunny, 80-degree Crystal Beach, Florida. I was wearing capris, a short-sleeve shirt, and strappy high heels and I wasn't cold. My sunglasses were on my head (when they weren't on my face) so I wouldn't lose them. I was driving around in my sexy G-6 rental car (fully loaded with OnStar, XM Radio, sunroof, 6-disk CD changer and more) with the sunroof and all four windows open and the air-conditioning on - because I could. I could feel the sun beating down on my face through the open sunroof, as I adjusted my sunglasses so I could still see. I was laughing and catching up with an old friend and sipping Stellas at Hannibals in Winter Park, and he was in shorts and a polo. I could smell the salt-water wafting off the Gulf of Mexico even as I drove further inland. I was eating fresh scallops caught that morning. I walked outside barefoot, showing off my newly pedicured toes. I held Nana's hand and hugged and kissed her for what I'm certain will be the last time in my life.
And then I boarded a plane.
Today I'm back in Chicago and it's 20 degrees and snowed yesterday. I should have shoveled yesterday, but I just wasn't ready to face the bitter winter outside my door. And this morning, I paid for it when I had to shovel a driveway of ice rather than a driveway of fresh snow.
What a difference 48 hours makes.
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