It happened on the 1 train this morning. The first cold morning of the year, the kind that sneaks up on you between one Tuesday and the next.
I walked out of my building near 137th Street in a linen shirt like an absolute fool. The kind of optimism only a person in denial about seasons can have.
By the time I got to the platform I had my arms crossed over my chest, doing that little shuffle everyone does. You know the one. The I-will-not-admit-I-need-a-jacket shuffle.
The first cold morning always does this to me. It rearranges my whole mood. Suddenly I wanted chai instead of iced coffee. Suddenly I wanted to be home under a blanket watching something with Shah Rukh Khan looking soulful in the rain.
The 1 train came, warm and crowded and slightly damp with everyone's breath. A man was eating a bacon egg and cheese with the devotion of prayer. A student had fallen asleep on his own backpack. I love this train in the morning. It's not glamorous. It's honest.
I got out at 66th because I wanted to walk the rest through the Upper West Side, past the pre-war buildings and the doormen already in their fall coats. The trees near Lincoln Center haven't turned yet but they're thinking about it. You can tell.
Here is what the first cold morning taught me. My mother was right. She always packs a shawl. Every single time she visited she'd say, beta, the weather in this city has no loyalty. And every single time I rolled my eyes.
Today I texted her a photo of my goosebumps. She replied with three laughing emojis and one word. Shawl.
I bought a coffee anyway, out of habit, then held it mostly for warmth. That's the transition month for you. Half committed to summer, half in love with the cold.
Next week I'm digging out the coats. Today I earned the right.
Wear the jacket. Your mother knows.
Love,