It’s easy to spot the undergrads in this town; they are the ones who don’t wear coats.

(Ok, so it’s easy to spot the undergrads in this town for several reasons: they are the ones drunkenly yelling at past and potential lovers in the middle of the street, falling over in six-inch heels, cracking their heads on the pavement and being loaded into ambulances, wandering the PedMall in identically-dressed, gender-segregated groups, and swarming the bars like flies to a hyena carcass).


I don’t know if you’ve heard, but um, it’s been a bit chilly this winter. All the sane people (non-undergrads) have been wearing pants under their pants and hats under their hats. I stopped shaving my legs for the extra warmth.

My hat was frozen to the ground for five days straight:


Even the trees had to wear sweaters:


No matter.

The boys traipse around in thin button-ups, and the girls never have on more than a tank top. (Even the girls who are sane enough to bring a light sweater don’t actually wear it- they just sling it over their wrist as they shiver along with all their other tank top friends). Everyone looks miserable.

They actually think nobody will have sex with them if they are seen in a jacket.

I’m going to say that one more time: They actually think nobody will have sex with them if they are seen in a jacket.

When I walk past them on weekend nights, sporting my coat that is so bulky and warm that a friend has termed it my “astronaut suit,” I am never happier to be 27.

If I could impart just one bit of wisdom to these Millennials, it wouldn’t be to advise them to care for the environment or to warn that their student loan debt won’t pay off (or get payed off) or to caution against the dangers of combining vodka with six-inch heels.

I would simply say: wear a fucking coat.

People will still have sex with you.

I promise.