I stopped by a local pound yesterday to grab a couple of chickens for my fabulous homemade lobster fra diavlo. While I was waiting for them to be plucked from the tank, I took a long whiff from my underarms and realized I hadn't had a shower in a few days. What luck, says the lobstermonger, there's hot showers right here at the pound. One-stop shopping for crustaceans and personal hygiene — we truly live in wondrous times.

The shower facilities weren't in top shape, and $2.00 seemed a little much for five minutes of hot water. But the guy sold me the bugs for boat price, so it only seemed fair to toss a small amount of profit his way. I stripped down, pulled the vinyl curtain shut, and dropped eight quarters down the control chute. Something under the building rumbled like forty lawnmowers starting at once, and a few moments later the spray issued forth from the shower head.

And oh goodness, what a spray it was. This wasn't water — at least not pure water. No no, this was shower soup, a stream of restorative ingredients that was long overdue. While a gentle abrasive scrubbed away the thick film of bad attitude I developed over this long Maine winter, glucuronolactone seeped through my pores to eliminate the endogenic and exogenic noxae that have clogged my creative channels for so long. A tasty espresso/Antabuse mix cascaded into my mouth, instantly sharpening my concentration while steeling my internals toward temperance; perhaps the New England Heavy Drinking Season was about to come to an end. There was even a rust inhibitor for my undercarriage.

Five minutes later, I sprang from the stall a new man, a changed man. This wasn't just a new spring in my step, I'd gotten a caseful of Slinkys implanted into my feet. I strutted back into the pound to the dumbstruck looks of customers and proprietors, open-mouthed at the transformation I'd just experienced. I took my lobsters from the shelf and announced my rebirth to all nearby. "Hibernation is over," I bellowed. "And this bear's got a lot of hikers to maul!"

Then I noticed I hadn't gotten dressed. I sure was happy the lobsters had rubber bands on their claws.

Guess what, Winter? Screw you again. Yesterday morning, I thought you'd beaten me for good. All it took, though, was an overly metaphorical shower in an unlikely location to get you off my back again.