"A little this side of the snow, And that side of the Haze" — Emily Dickinson (Shutterstock)

Situated between our soul-crushing humid summer and fierce bone-chilling winter, is Autumn. Perfect, blissful Autumn. During this brief season, you, New Yorker, can show up to an appointment/meeting/date without summer sweat stripping all joy from your face, without your frozen nose running, and without second guessing your decision to live here and not in Los Angeles... where there is no real Autumn, even if they adorably cling to the idea that they have seasons.

"Welcome to autumn, fuckheads!" — McSweeney's (Shutterstock)

Depending on what that untrustworthy minx Mother Nature has in store for us, the stretch of perfect Fall days can last anywhere from 1 to 6 weeks, give or take infinity weeks for Global Warming. We are assured some time with this fickle mistress, though, and during that time the subway will smell like a Yankee Candle. You will be seduced by words like "cider," "sweater weather," "pumpkin spice," and "there's a new Scandal on this Thursday." You will become reacquainted with your socks, and eventually like it. Some apartment nearby will always have a delicious-smelling fire burning even though it's not that cold out, the scent will permeate the air and you won't even hate those people for having a working fireplace. Coldplay will sound better to you.

"Are we not better and at home, In dreamful Autumn" — Ernest Dowson (Shutterstock)

Things that were alive and thriving this summer are literally dying all around you and it's a beautiful massacre. You are journeying through it all in your Frye boots. Everything crunches. A Randy Newman song is on. And it somehow always smells like somewhere, just off in the distance, an Anthropologie is being used as kindling for a S'mores campfire.

Fall is handcrafted antler skewers. Fall is the steam from your cocoa embracing your nose as you go in for a sip. Fall is being able to drink whiskey earlier, because darkness. Fall is a crisp sheet of looseleaf paper spooning with a knit scarf. It's a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils. It's New York City's romantic comedy season. You will be powerless against any man wearing flannel, or any woman sporting cable knit tights and seasonal bangs. Love is in the air... the same air that will soon turn bitter cold and freeze your currently glowing heart. Deaden the warm gaze in your eyes. Kill the romance. Leave you huddled next to the oven in your cold, drafty apartment. Is that asshole wearing that flannel AGAIN? Things are going to get pretty dark, for a pretty long time after this, so it's important to gather ye colorful dead leaves while ye may.

"A fantabulous night to make romance, ’Neath the cover of October skies, And all the leaves on the trees are falling, To the sound of the breezes that blow" — Van Morrison (Shutterstock)

The best part of this short season, aside from Your New Fall Boyfriend Reading You Walden, is the changing colors of the leaves. So when's that happening? Typically this will happen for us in the last week of October and first week of November—while you may see some patches of color now, here's the current state of things:

"Of all the seasons, autumn offers the most to man and requires the least of him" — Hal Borland (Shutterstock / I Love NY)

Your fall foliage report for the week of October 6th: no change in the leaves, but go ahead and curl up under your Pendleton.