You know exactly what the fuck I’m talking about here.
It’s been ungodly cold over the last few days, weeks, whatever. Perhaps it’s snowed a lot. Maybe you haven’t seen more than a few passing hours of the sun in days. Whatever the specifics are, you’re ready for it to end.
You don’t need it to be balmy or, hell, even over 55 degrees. In fact, that’s sort of the humorous beauty of it, no?
When you get that first sunny, good-weather day after a depressing avalanche of shitty, brutally cold days it doesn’t matter what the actual temperature is. It could only reach 52 degrees and it feels like the Fourth of July.
When I was at Syracuse, the first sunny day was accompanied by girls in bathing suits in the quad, everyone wearing shorts, day drinking and grilling. In the midst of all this joyous revelry, we all sort of agreed to forget that it had barely cracked 50 degrees.
That’s the point, though.
The temperature itself is irrelevant. It’s the feeling you get, the contrast from what you previously endured to what is in your present.
It’s hopeful, it’s uplifting, it’s pleasant.
Plus, who doesn’t like a girl in a bikini.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Mid-to-late March, you think you’re in the clear… and there’s one more big snowstorm that comes out of fucking nowhere.