I am wearing uncomfortable underpants and having an earnest conversation in my mind, discussing the seasons of the year with the busker who fell asleep while his electronic keyboard played on without him. It worries me (I tell the busker) that I’m tired of the winter, the season I used to love the most. But this winter, I’m cold all the time, sick of immobilizing myself within thirty layers of clothing, and annoyed by the perpetual ballet of adjusting the two heat pumps in our house to achieve the most precisely comfortable climate. The busker suggests I try the other seasons out for size. Traditionally, spring has delivered to me allergies, chronic bronchitis, and the looming anxiety of summer; summer is a three-month purgatory of weather, activities, and fashions I loathe with every molecule of my being. Fall is nice. I love light jackets and the colors on trees. Even though I don’t have any children of my own, I’m comforted knowing that the little monsters have gone back to school and might against all odds be learning something that will make them productive in society.

The busker agrees with me on all counts and politely looks away as I stop to adjust my underpants.

Okay, so, tired of winter. Right. Monday, I snuck up to New York to spend a day alone with my husband. After the snowstorm, we walked over to see The Gates in Central Park, a trail of saffron fluttering against the white. Snow is good for some things, I suppose. Like The Gates, it’s an equal-opportunity reminder to look at the familiar world in a new way.

The busker reminds me that one might achieve the same effect by wearing uncomfortable underpants, during which time the world transforms into a dichotomy of highly visible public areas and secret corners in which one might stop and scratch the roses.