The Cruelest Months

For some, Springtime is a time of rebirth, of great joy, of renewal and optimism. If you can locate a tree, it's inevitably budding, and the subways don't yet stink too badly of piss and rotting vermin. For happy campers who enjoy such things, spring is a time of expectation, potential and, most of all, romance.

But for us glass-half-empty types, spring means long-murdered floaters bobbing to the river's surface. You're never quite sure what to wear, because the temperature fluctuates by a good 40 degrees during any given day, and who knows if it's going to rain or not. Worse, the chirping birds and incessant sunlight bring out a forced friendliness that might play in Vermont, but here serves only to unnerve.

The season even starts out badly. "Spring forward" is just propaganda trying to put a positive spin on the fact that we're losing a precious hour of sleep in order to gain another couple hours of melanoma-inducing sunlight. And for what? Find me one person who doesn't look better in the dark.

As the temperature climbs and the days stretch longer, far too many folks use the change as an excuse to ferret away all their dreary black clothing and begin wearing outfits more suited to a retarded, color-blind beach bunny. Normally well-dressed women cast all sense of style aside and don Easter-egg-hued linen shifts and adorable little flower-flecked sundresses better suited to a Sunday social in the 'burbs. Pass the ambrosia salad-yum!

We can pray that the trend of the visible thong is, um, behind us, but since Ugg boots and newsboy caps were still hanging in this past winter, I don't have much hope. (Just a tip: Jeans shouldn't be so low-hung that they require a waxing appointment. Not everyone wants to see your super-edgy lower-back tattoo. Oh, and before I forget: skirt or pants-pick one.)

Worse yet are trends in warm-weather footwear. Sandals are fugly enough, but the flip-flop? Look down at just about any broad under 40 and you'll see freshly pedicured toes, desperately trying to maintain their grip on a flimsy pair of these rubbery excuses for shoes. Do the wearers realize these are not shoes, but a thin wrapper designed to protect the sole of your foot from the searing hot sand of a pristine beach located in a land far, far away from Avenue B? They're no match for Allen Street! Are the ladies who don them walking different streets than I do, or are they blind to the mystery puddles and freshly unfrozen mega-turds that pepper the sidewalks? I'd rather not risk dipping my bare tootsies into a steaming pile of Fido's organically recycled Alpo.

You men aren't much better with your man-diggers and cargo shorts. If you're going to wear shorts (which, again, unless you're on a beach or under 12, you shouldn't), commit to showing a lotta leg. Quit half-assing it, boys. We want butt cheek.

If you're going to commit the ultimate fashion atrocity and rock the mandal (please don't!), at least get a pedicure. Socks are no substitute for a well-groomed foot, and nothing says "No, thanks!" like furry hobbit feet or funky fungal toenails. But don't you fret: Having your calluses sanded off and your toenails trimmed won't make you less of a man; John Gotti got regular manicures, and look where that got him. On second thought, wouldn't you be much more comfy in a nice pair of loafers? Even sneaks will do.

Between the flip-flopped ladies showing off their plumber butts and the fuzzy-footed dudes in artfully angled baseball caps, it's truly a wonder anyone gets laid after April Fool's Day.

Unfortunate fashion choices are far from the only springtime sexual deterrent. Seconds after the last snow melts, college boys who've spent their entire winter enraptured by their computer screens, alternately jerking off to internet porn and/or cappin' bitches on Grand Theft Auto, stream outdoors, choking the sidewalks surrounding NYU (i.e., Lower Manhattan), kicking around a teensy bean bag with a group of their tie-dye-clad buds. The supremely irritating hacky sack is an activity-I hesitate to call it a sport-that first gained popularity in Grateful Dead parking lots. It should've died with Jerry. Boys who play hacky don't deserve a love snacky.

And while the flowers and trees might tempt you, don't even think about taking a romantic nature stroll through the park. If the pollen doesn't cripple you-causing even the most straight-edge among us to resemble a sniffling refugee from rehab-the potentially fatal frisbee careening toward your noggin will.

As many New Yorkers are originally from elsewhere and grew up with luxuries like lawns, the tiniest patch of syringe- and poo-littered grass inexplicably compels even the most uptight lady to strip down to her skivvies in order to soak up cancerous, wrinkle-causing rays. Interestingly enough, these same bikini-clad sun-worshippers get annoyed when the hordes of the horny comment on their state of undress. Ladies, you're wearing panties in midtown. C'mon. I'm not saying anyone deserves to be accosted, but either develop a thicker skin, or put on some pants.

Luckily for the cranks among us, New York ships its college students to points south so they can develop alcohol poisoning, catch assorted venereal diseases and make their bid at stardom with the "Gone Wild" boys out of eye- and earshot. But we're still stuck with the high school kids. For one week in May, instead of impregnating guidance counselors and making out with math teachers, all those dreadful teens are out and about strutting their taut, hairless, pheromone-soaked bods in front of pervy old ladies who shouldn't be thinking such thoughts.

Averting your eyes from the jailbait, you catch sight of that guy you went out with last winter. You know, the one who slept with you on the first date and then pretended he didn't know you when your unwitting mutual friend tried to introduce you two weeks later. Yeah, him. The one dry-humping the girl who looks exactly like the chick on the cover of the fashion mag you're clutching in your now-sweaty hands. Oh, wait. That is her. Just as they both catch you staring at his obvious boner, the two-year-old sitting next to you leans over and pokes your fat roll.

Careening out of the car and up onto the street, you're temporarily blinded by the godawful sunlight. And damned if you haven't already lost this latest pair of five-dollar sunglasses. That's okay, there's a bar just two doors down. As you feel your way to the bar, you vow silently to yourself that you won't leave until sundown. And so what if that's six hours from now.

When you're still having snowstorms into late March, by the time spring really kicks in, it's understandable that one could get a little over-excited about not having to wear 10 sweaters and woolen undergarments. But 55 degrees does not mean it's time to bust out the bikini. The frenzied and premature leap into summer-mile-long lines for Shake Shack (they're burgers, people!) and overnight proliferation of scanty clothing-has convinced me that the collective IQ of New York drops 10 points in direct proportion to each degree warmer the weather.

66. It's sunny! I wanna eat outdoors! C'mon-don't be a party pooper! I don't care if we're sitting at a sidewalk table on a truck route. Exhaust fumes aren't so bad, silly! Look, I can get a tan with my omelet! Hey-where's that guy going with my purse!

67. With the shucking of coats comes a two-week period during which certain men are so captivated by the sudden reappearance of boobies that they find it impossible to look anywhere but at your tits.

68. Bikini season is just around the corner. Must make appointment with sadistic Russian woman so I can pay her many shekels to smear hot wax onto my cooter-all over my poor labia, up and down my ass crack-and then savagely rip it off aided by a stack of muslin strips.

69. Guess what this makes me think of? Yeah, dude! 69!

70. Normally sensible men replace their Converse with the dreaded mandal.

71. Normally sensible men accessorize the aforementioned mandal with man-diggers. Please note: Pants or shorts. There is no in-between.

72.?74. It's around this time that those annoying couples whom everyone hates on sight decide to bust out the PDAs. Please note that dry humping is no more acceptable in May than it is in December.

75. B-cup or better should be wearing a bra. No, really.

76. The sight of so much bare flesh causes single people across the city to gouge out their own eyes, while coupled folks start to seriously believe they're hot enough to consider trading up.

77. Time to rewax. Ouch.

78. Citizens across the city schedule tetanus shots as unwise footwear choices force thousands into the city's already overburdened emergency rooms.

79. One more degree and it's summer!

80. Now the stupid really starts.