Yesterday, the temperature in New York City reached eighty-one degrees Fahrenheit; it will not dip below fifty degrees again this week. We are pleased to announce that winter, which began sometime in November, has finally come to a close after six long months.
Spring will be vanishingly brief. It occurred during the first paragraph of this post. The sticky season is already upon us, and it will be thick and unforgiving and last an age. The grim ecological consequences of global warming aside, this is worth celebrating: New York City is at its best when everyone is slightly miserable, hardly dressed, glistening and surrounded by a light cloud of funk. At the very least, it is never more equitable: everybody suffers. And there is no greater bond than shared, unbridled misery with precious little relief in sight.