Spring fever hit today. It was gorgeous out — 60 degrees, which, while not summery, was balmy enough to stir up my hormones as I walked around sunny Manhattan, looking at all the T-shirted boys.

The day was even better because I finally got to meet Faustus. He was cute and charming, as I’d expected he’d be. I was about to write “he was as cute and charming as I’d expected he’d be,” except that could be interpreted wrongly, as it would leave open to interpretation whether I’d actually expected him to be cute and charming, which I did, and how cute and charming he was, which was quite.

So, this weather. It’s odd — all winter long I’ve been waiting for a day like today. For months I’ve Zenned myself into visions of lying out on a towel in Central Park. Of not wearing a jacket. Of late sunsets. Of T-shirted boys. And such a day has finally arrived, and what did I feel?

Pressure.

The kind of pressure you feel when you don’t have plans on New Year’s Eve.

Everyone seemed to be out and about, having fun. Before coming home, I went down to Chelsea and walked around. I thought I’d hop into Starbucks and sip something and write, but Starbucks was too crowded. I wasn’t in a Big Cup mood, but it was close by, so I walked up Eighth Avenue to check it out — and the sidewalk outside the place was mobbed. Mobbed with identical, cute, hair-closely-cropped, T-shirted boys. And there were no seats inside. And I wasn’t in a mood to pose anyway. So I left.

I had it in my head that everyone was out and about, having fun and singing and jumping and running and playing and flirting. And I felt like I had to do the same. In fact, I sort of wanted to do the same. But instead, I was walking around Chelsea alone.

I hope the next six months don’t feel like this. They probably won’t, but… you wonder sometimes.

I think I need some new T-shirts.
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