Toes in powdery white sand. The waves gently rippling to shore. Rum punch in hand. Damn but you can’t hold it in anymore. You put down your plastic cup, stand up and proceed to do a happy dance that has your mortified friends planting their faces in their hands. But you don’t care because it was one long gray seemingly infinite winter that chilled you to your bones, in the midst of which your boyfriend left, and you turned ingloriously thirty-three. But you are here at last and nobody’s going to deny you this dance or the few more to follow.