But while complaining about classes is one thing, complaining about the weather makes me want to remove my eyeballs with a dull spoon.
Today I was enjoying the sunlight and mild temperature when I overheard a young woman walking into Adams dining hall. “Oh my God,” she shouted into her camera phone, “I can’t even wear sandals today.” My jaw dropped, and I shot her the old you-must-be-brain-dead look.
“It’s not June, you miniskirt-clad moron,” I wanted to say. But I am a model of self-restraint, and somehow, I resisted the overwhelming temptation to leap off a building.
This young woman—with a fake tan that would shame Donatella Versace—made me lose much of my faith in the universe. It might be springtime, but that doesn’t mean board shorts and halter-tops. This isn’t California, where the convenient smog keeps the beaches insulated (and the children stunted). This is Boston, where the weather is downright unpredictable. Get the hell over it.
And it’s not like there’s some kind of false advertising going on. Harvard doesn’t pretend to be located in Daytona Beach—where it seemed Ms. Miniskirt might have better luck finding her fellow orange-hued brethren. While the University website might show lovely photos of Harvard in the springtime, you’d have to be inbred to think that Cambridge is a bastion of sunny, mild weather.
So if you’re going to complain about the snow or the wind or the temperature, you’d better just pack your bags and head out. And don’t forget your fucking sandals.