New York has seasons. Until global warming burns that truth into oblivion, we New Yorkers get the markers of time passing via waves of fresh vibrant vegetables at the farmers markets, the bursts of autumnal rainbows in the changing of the leaves, and the first freshly fallen snow—so pure, so white, so fleeting. There's also the fact that seasons—at least summer and winter—last a really fucking long time, and what was once all charming and shit at first turns into a repetitive torture, not unlike having to listen to a Celine Dion album in entirety. During summer's long months, everything becomes so sticky and lethargic that even the jingle of Mr. Frosty can't motivate you to move away from the whirling fan. Winter becomes the abysmal frozen hell that makes all humans edgy and bitter (I might be projecting, but I still think I'm right).
And if you are anything like me, you are tired of seeing Instagram posts of abstract platings of sliced fruit with the Caribbean Sea as the backdrop from some yoga chick you know who likes to vacation in Tulum. And your ass hurts from slipping on some black ice when you were only a block away from home and it was too freezing to cry out in pain. Does this sound familiar?