I fucking love sweatshirts.
You can wear them with t-shirts, with dress shirts, with those henley things. They look good tighter and looser, heavier and thinner. They cover up stains, help you sneak shit into movie theaters, cover your head in the rain and are, generally, the most comfortable form of clothing that’s not something made from velour.
So, it comes as no surprise that by the time summer has made it’s mark and we’re ready to move on to the 11 days of Fall we’re allotted in the north east before winter ravages us, I’m READY for it.
Beyond the obvious cutesy shit that’s associated with sweatshirt weather, all of which I like (apple picking, football starting, the NBA not being far behind, being able to be outside for hours without sweating through various articles of clothing), part of my love for sweatshirt weather is that it finally gets me out of shorts and t-shirts and into pants and long sleeves. I not only like the way I look better (but I guarantee it!), but I like the way I feel.
I don’t have to worry about anyone asking me to go to the beach or whether or not I’m tan enough or if I put on just the right amount of deodorant that will protect me but not stain my t-shirt. I don’t have to go swimming or debate whether or not I should be wearing shorts or pants when I go out or if I need a jacket or not. It’s all set in stone.
Fall, you can’t get here fast enough.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Any day in August.