Snowflakes gently fell to the ground. Tree branches held piles of winter’s sparkly fluff. Brilliant white blanketed the grass. And yellow holes splotched what would have otherwise been a pretty winter scene. Leave it to my four-legged BFF to keep it real.

Record-breaking low temps welcomed me to our new Midwestern home. Schools were cancelled, businesses were closing—and even the dentist’s office said ‘fuh-get-about-it’ and rescheduled my son’s filling.

There’s something contagious in the air when the world freezes in place.

It’s called Slug-itis.

The last time I was a lazy slug? Oh yes, it was way back, never.

Never. Not once in my life can I recall a day of doing NOTHING productive. I’m a doer.

But at that moment of contemplating my BFF’s addition to winter’s splendor, and the frozen-in-place smirk on his fluffy face? I decided if it’s too cold for stinkboy, it’s too cold for me.

I’d never before had the option to try life as a slug. It didn’t sound sexy, but my BFF cares not what I look like as long as his food dish is full and the back door opens periodically. He’s so practical.

Prior to said slug-metamorphosis, I held a harried, executive position in publishing. Then, after nearly 20 years, I left that turbo-mode, very-public world to move 2000 miles away with my husband. Then we moved again, from coast to coast, dropping old lives and picking up new ones. And all within six months.

I used to be super busy.

Now, I am not.

Now I can be a slug.

I looked around. I had nothing to do. And, for a fleeting moment, I missed feeling important.

So with perfection I fluffed the couch pillows as if staging for a photoshoot. But I was not in a multi-million dollar home owned by someone super cool. It was my house. Well, my rental house. And unshowered, donning baggy sweatpants and yesterday’s leftover mascara, I was the antithesis of cool.

Surely I should be doing something constructive. So, I grabbed a new to-do list and pen. There. Now I could be productive. Seeking something sturdy to put beneath my list, I found a hard, blue case.

What was within the case was a Samsung tablet—an impulse purchase, utilized for two tasks only: one is a computer game intended for toddlers (not former publishing execs… and no, I do not have toddlers), and the other purpose, I ask raising my eyebrows repeatedly?

Netflix.

Oh yes, Thomas Shelby, we are on like Donkey Kong.

Yes, this sloppy Sue Slug wrapped within a blanket and immersed her mind within the world of “Peaky Blinders.” Instead of running meetings, greeting clients and directing shoots, this slug pushed empty unease aside, and focused solely on her show. For hours. Like a frozen-in-place- Nyquil-addicted-bug.

The well-intentioned to-do list fell like a fall leaf to crumble between the cushions—and the day’s entirety ensued with mine loving eyes on Thomas Shelby. That is, until I faltered into unconsciousness—and had the BEST NAP OF MY LIFE.

I awoke feeling oddly refreshed. With a sly smile I looked around as if caught snoozing on the job. But I had no job. All that surrounded was my BFF’s snores and his no-shame-here-and-I-own-this-place sleeping posture.

Shouldn’t I be doing something important? But I had nothing urgent to address. No emails to answer. No calls to return. Nope. Zippo. Nada.

So weird.

And then I thought a little harder. Forefinger tapping to temple (it helps), I realized something: we all need to slow down sometime. This freedom is a blessing for which I’m grateful, but it doesn’t mean it’s a seamless transition from 7500-miles-an-hour to slug.

Slowing down? It’s healthy for our minds. For our bodies. Running on high-octane, Starbucks and energy bars is great. But at some point? Slugitis sets in—to even the most determined souls among us. It’s okay. And in the end? Slugs are nice. Harmless. And they offer a pretty contented condition.

Even if just for one day.

Or, until a new season with Thomas Shelby…