What ever happened to transitions between seasons? In fact, whatever happened to clear cut seasons that the Northeast is famous for?
Here in Binghamton, while there should be four seasons, it seems as if there are only two, winter and summer. The beginning of the fall semester is introduced with the heat of August, and conversely with the heat of the student population. Nights are warm, or so you think, until ultimately, one Friday night you’re walking from your frat to downtown and realize that you no longer have legs, instead they have transformed into stubs of ice. This is the first and only signal of the upcoming fall, which does not actually exist. My suitemates and I affectionately speak of the autumn season, as if it will come. We say things like, “let’s watch Hocus Pocus when the leaves change,” or “When the leaves change, we’ll go costume shopping…” Though, what we don’t anticipate, and you’d think we’d catch on, it being our third year and all, is that you will wake up one Monday morning to trees that have magically turned delectable reds, yellows, and purples. Come Monday night, all the leaves are on the ground. As for my fellow beloved Long Island girls, one day you’re wearing flip-flops, and the next it’s back to your faithful Uggs. For everyone else, one night you sleep naked, window open, sacrificing sleep and accepting the obnoxious drunkards outside, all for the possibility of a breeze, and the next, you’re rocking four pairs of socks and huddling under three blankets.