For those of you stationed close to the equator in tropical climates — get your heads (or toes, as it were) out of the white, silky sand and take notice — the seasons are changing. While you bask in perpetual sunshine and warm breezes, eating papaya and sniffing hibiscus flowers, the rest of us are preparing ourselves for the annual Ice Age.

The geographically blessed believe that “’Tis the Season” is a cheerful sentiment spoken by dapper merrymakers while holiday shopping on twinkle-light-bedecked streets. However, this well-worn phrase means something entirely different for folks residing north of the horse latitudes.

Loosely translated, this festive greeting actually means in Northern tongues, “You’d better get your keister indoors and bundle up, because we’re about to freeze our bippies off up here!” While you lucky devils lollygag in equatorial paradise, the rest of us are preparing ye the way for temps to drop, for winds to bite, for vegetation to wither, for noses to drip and for flesh to shrivel.

Truth be told, I actually enjoy the change of seasons. It’s one of the reasons my husband and I decided to settle in New England after he retired from the Navy. I recall a military friend warning us when we received orders to Rhode Island, “The cold wind begins to blow hard in November, and it won’t stop until May.” Despite his accurate testimonial, we were undeterred.

Perhaps my snowy Western Pennsylvania childhood brainwashed me into believing that I actually like being cold for seven months consecutively. I get very nostalgic during this time of year.

Like proverbial sugar plums, scenes of holiday bliss dance in my head during winter months, blinding me to the weather-related realities of living in New England.

I relish the opportunity to wear comfy oversized sweaters, which disguise the extra 10 pounds I never seem to lose. I can’t wait to cook hearty slow cooker recipes that will deprive our family of fresh fruits and vegetables, leaving us constipated throughout the holidays. I envision Currier and Ives scenes of horse-drawn sleighs and steaming mugs of wassail, even when I’m stuck in salt-hazed traffic, watching my breath while I wait for the carseats to warm up. In my deluded excitement, I see only Dickensian rosy cheeks, while my dehydrated skin sloughs in flakes and my chafed nose crusts over.

Though my seasonal derangement begins well before the Thanksgiving turkey carcass has been tossed in the trash, there are many weeks of waiting before my frosty fantasies come to fruition. After all, winter doesn’t actually begin until the sun dips lowest in the Northern Hemisphere. The shortest day marks the winter solstice (December 21 in 2024) that heralds the long, dark spell when the sun betrays us, turning her rays southward.

Also, thanks to phenomena such as global warming and El Niño, New England hovers in miserable ambiguity for weeks, when it’s too cold, but not cold enough. We may wish for crystalline blankets of snow, sparkling icicles and frolicking children in woolen mittens. But Mother Nature is a harsh parent, allowing only rain — drop after dreary drop — as precipitation’s punishment for impatience.

The wait seems forever, but the north (and perhaps hell) eventually freezes over, and when it does, we ooh and ahh at the fresh fallen snow, feeling fortunate to live in a winter wonderland. That’s about the time that Mother Nature sicks El Niño’s spiteful sister, La Niña, on us. As the brutal winter weeks while away, meteorologists plod through the alphabet naming each incoming blizzard — Anya, Blair, Cora, Demi — while we shovel, slip, slide, sniffle, scrape, shiver and barely survive.

Come April, our chestnut-nibbling nostalgia has given way to desperate longings for tropical vacations. Finally we admit it; we are fed up.

My false fantasies about the coming winter may seem foolhardy to you people of paradise. You may be right, but there isn’t room for everyone in Shangri-La. My delusions serve me well, as a natural defense mechanism to keep me from fleeing to avoid winter’s annual pain and suffering.

Call me crazy, but I know this for certain: As sure as the sun will rise, winter is on its way — and I for one can’t wait.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com