What are we supposed to do now? I don’t know about you, but I was already planning the menu for the Super Bowl on Feb. 6. Nachos and grilled chicken. This was the year. Tom Brady isn’t getting any younger.

You don’t notice the bitter (where did all that firewood go?) weather half as much when the Patriots are headed for the Super Bowl. Now what?

All the Patriots had to do was beat the New York Jets, a team they had demolished by more than 40 points three weeks earlier.

Naturally, true New England fans despise all New York teams, dating back to the century-or-so domination by the Damned Yankees over our beloved Red Sox. That ingrained hatred was then applied to the New York Giants, Mets, Knicks and of course, the loudmouth Jets.

If Mike Tyson became a football team, he would be the New York Jets.

This game had become more important than the vaunted Super Bowl, simply because of the Jets.

And, somehow, the Patriots lost. Tom Brady, the cover boy quarterback married to the supermodel, has gone from an idol to a bum. I hate to admit it, but I listen to sports radio all day. Now I have to listen to the bloodthirsty shut-ins living in their mother’s basement explaining how and where Brady went wrong. It’s almost as bad as the loss itself.

This is how I plan my winter. I stay in frozen, icy, snowy Maine until the Super Bowl (naturally expecting the Patriots to participate), then scurry off to Fort Myers, to watch the latest edition of the Red Sox. The fake “games” don’t start until March 1, so it takes me three weeks to drive (some of us don’t fly) to Florida. Luckily, I have friends and family in Norton, (Mass.), Charleston, then across the Florida line to Leesburg, Spring Hill, then Fort Myers.

You cannot drive south without a stop at the Smithsonian and the Newseum and its new Sports Illustrated photo exhibit, plus an Elvis retrospective. That takes a day. Gettysburg is always an option.

But even I can’t leave now. I can’t kill four weeks on the road to Fort Myers. We all know that fish and company reek after three days. I don’t know how much friends and family could put up with.

It looks like I am going to suffer through the winter until at least the Super Bowl. I suppose I could get into the classics, but the Amazon.com credit card company has said “enough already.” It is simply too much work to get to the Camden Library, as lovely as it is. I could make a comeback skiing at the Snow Bowl, but it is too late for that. Cross-country skiing? Forget it.

The YMCA is there, waiting. I could always join up and spend the two weeks to get ready for the actual activity in Florida after months glued to the couch. I load up the mighty Tundra with a bike and kayak for the 1,500-mile Florida trip and actually use both.

Certainly, I will not watch the AFC championship between the Steelers and the (ptui) Jets. I could not bear to watch the Jets get to the Super Bowl, let alone win it.

We all know that the Super Bowl crown belonged to the Patriots, Tom Brady and us. I hate the Jets.

What are we supposed to do now?