My niece recently went on a field trip with a group of Brigham Young University biology students to central Utah where they collected data on bears. In case you're interested, this is how you collect data on bears.

1. Mr. Ranger crawls into den with hypodermic needle to tranquilize bear.

2. BYU students help Mr. Ranger drag bear out by ankles.

3. BYU students circle around tranquilized bear and collect biological data such as height, weight, marital status, number of children, annual income, religious affiliation (if any), political affiliation (if any), zodiac sign, cell phone number, e-mail address, hobbies and whether or not bear has shaved her legs since October (ANSWER: no).

4. BYU students write up research, as well as personals ad to run in next issue of City Weekly: GROGGY FEMALE MAMMAL SEEKS GROGGY MALE MAMMAL INTERESTED IN LONG WINTER NAPS.

"Wait a minute," I said to my niece. "You're telling me that the bear could have awakened while Mr. Ranger was in her den?"

"Yes," she said.

"I didn't think it was possible to wake up bears while they're hibernating," I said.

"It's a myth that bears hibernate," my niece said. "They just go into a state of torpor (SEE DEFINITION BELOW) during the winter months."

TORPOR: extreme sluggishness, stagnation, stupor, lethargy, languor or lassitude.

"Oh my gosh!" I said. "That's what happens to me during the winter months! I go into a state of torpor, too!"

Every winter it's the same thing. I stagnate. This in spite of the fact I vow each year to stay on top of my torpor issues by eating protein, drinking fluids (in addition to Dr Pepper) and getting plenty of vigorous winter-type exercise. Hurrah! Look at me! I'm snowshoeing in the moonlight!

Just thinking about my projected winter proactiveness always makes me feel better.

But! By the time January rolls around, it's p-r-e-t-t-y obvious to everyone that I am once again experiencing heavy-duty full-blown torpor. It's all I can do to lumber through my days, yawning and consuming MASSIVE amounts of carbs, while waiting until 4:30 in the afternoon so I can put on my pajamas and find a cave where I can sleep.

Until spring.

Or until a group of BYU biology students (including my niece) drags me out of the cave by my ankles.

Whichever comes first.

BYU biology students: Look! It's a female bear! Wearing pajamas!

Niece: Hey! My aunt has a pair just like them!

After having this experience year in and year out, I've decided to change my strategy. I AM NOT GOING TO FIGHT TORPOR ANYMORE. I'm just going to accept the fact that for a few months every year I feel all sluggish-y and stupor-y and lassitudeness-y. I'm going to accept the fact that the ONLY things I want to do from January to the middle of March are eat, watch TV, read murder mysteries by depressed northern European males and, oh yeah, eat.

But, seriously, where's the harm in that? Torpor doesn't last because here's the deal — spring always, always comes again. In fact, it's scheduled to arrive this very week.

And when it does, I always, always feel better.

Ah. Miracle.

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E-mail: acannon@desnews.com