I have been embarking on a song-a-day challenge over on Substack, and thanks to Winter Storm FERN, I completely forgot that it was National Florida Day. 

Because of course it was.

There’s something wildly ironic about celebrating Florida, the land of sunburns, palm trees, and salt-rimmed glasses, while staring out the window at over a foot of snow. One minute you’re supposed to be mentally barefoot on warm sand, the next you’re shoveling a driveway, wondering how this is your life.

But that contrast? It’s kind of the point.

When I think of Florida Day, my mind goes straight to 1982, when Bertie Higgins gave us “Key Largo.” That soft-rock daydream of Hemingway, Bogart, and a romance that lives mostly in memory. The song didn’t promise reality; it promised escape. Florida wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling you could access through a radio.

And then there’s Jimmy Buffett, of course. Margaritaville. The soundtrack of checked-out optimism. The anthem of people who understood, long before hustle culture, that sometimes life is heavy and pretending it’s five o’clock somewhere is a survival strategy, not laziness.

What hits differently now is how those songs framed Florida as a state of mind. Not perfection. Not endless happiness. Just relief. A pause. A permission slip to stop taking everything so seriously.

Which makes Snowstorm Fern oddly appropriate.

Because adulthood is realizing that you can hold two realities at once:

• The fantasy of the beach
• The reality of the snowstorm

And still find meaning in the contrast.

Florida Day isn’t about denying where you are. It’s about remembering that imagination has always been a coping mechanism. Music has always been a portal. And sometimes the dream matters just as much as the destination.

So today, even if you’re bundled up instead of barefoot, you’re allowed to:

• Play Key Largo anyway
• Daydream about turquoise water
• Laugh at the absurdity of snow on Florida Day
• And remember that escape doesn’t always require travel

Sometimes it just requires a song, a memory, and the reminder that we’ve always known how to romanticize our way through hard seasons.

After all—
It really is five o’clock somewhere.