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Fall means a lot of different things to a lot of different people.  There’s the stereotypical “pumpkin spiced” everything, the homecoming to reality from a summer of revelry, or just merely time to switch out your closet full of croptops for cashmere sweaters.  For me, it always feels like it’s time to buckle down and start taking myself more seriously, which usually lasts for only a few days at a time before I find myself giving way to bad habits or curled up like a recluse, engulfed in a pile of books.  Repeat cycle.

For most New Yorkers, fall is one of the few seasons during the year in which we actually enjoy the weather, erratic as it may be.  We’re done complaining about the heat, we haven’t yet begun to bitch about the frozen sidewalk tundra, and there’s almost something enchanting about that slight chill in the air.  It gives the fleeting feeling that maybe, just maybe something magical is right around the corner.  But much like all love affairs, there comes a chill wherein one must remember why she fell in love in the first place and vow to soldier on- even in the snow.