The little weather app thingy on my phone tells me to expect a high of 81 degrees tomorrow and highs in the 80s and 90s (!!!) all next week. This means, ALLEGEDLY, that this depressing grey Seattle-esque weather we've been suffering through of late is very nearly vanquished, and soon we will swap out the rain, cold and drear for sun and margaritas. SUN AND MARGARITAS.

I'd be a bad New Yorker if I didn't address all of summer's downsides—backsweat, sunburn, humidity, street roaches—but this extended, drab spring made Wuthering Heights seem hospitable, and I for one cannot wait to have to stuff paper towels under my armpits to spare my coworkers several months worth of sweat stains. Summer means THE BEACH (Rockaway Beach! Jacob Riis Park! All of the beaches! ALL THE MICHELADAS!)

Summer means hiking! Summer means outdoor movies! Summer means sleeping in a tiny house! Summer means free concerts in the park! Summer means freaky thunderstorms! Summer means splaying out on the couch watching 12 hours of The Great British Bake-Off because you have not one, but TWO oscillating fans now, and not a thing in the world will get you out of your apartment and onto the sunbaked street.

I mean, sure, the subway platforms are hot, but summer means sidewalk dining, and they let dogs hang out in sidewalk cafes sometimes. SUMMER MEANS DOGS. And, occasionally, very pungent dog poop, but those little punims are so worth it.

Tomorrow will be SUMMER. I'm off to shave my legs.