I think my own, personal hell might be a 20 minute walk in 20 degree weather, with a wind chill of 10 degrees, carrying the week's groceries in plastic bags over my shoulders and in my hands. Over and over again. In New Hampshire. Or anywhere frigid, I suppose.
Contrarily, and so I do not leave you with merely a complaint a day for the month of February, I have also contemplated my own, personal heaven. Dusk. Snowing. But temperatures above 32 degrees. A nice balmy 65. Warm enough for a swimsuit. Or at least cute clothes. Oh, and food. Of course.