I admit it: I was wrong. Even I was wearing sundresses through that ten-day window of freakishly warm—no, downright hot—temps a few weeks ago, and it felt so good. Even the quality of the light looked summery—a strong, flattering golden hue rather than the washed-out quality of early spring. I felt a little awkward flashing my pale gams on my bike, but as they say, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Now we're suffering the sartorial hangover from that taste of June. Going back to sweaters and heavy coats just seems wrong, somehow, even if the thermometer says it's 45 degrees outside. I already sent my go-to navy cardigan to the dry cleaner, and although I love my faux-fur scarf, I can't bring myself to put it on, always reaching for my gauzy warm-weather alternative instead. Then I tuck my mittens and a wool beret in my bag and hope for the best.

Some optimistic (or deluded) souls continue to wear flip-flops, preferring to focus on the sunshine rather than the frost warnings. A friend on Facebook implores someone to explain the white-people phenomenon of fleece vests with shorts. It's clearly a case of spring fever, an illness that won't abate until warm temperatures stabilize, something that we all know from experience we can't count on until after Memorial Day. In the meantime, we'll shiver in our thin trenches and layer wispy dresses with leggings and riding boots. Because it's just too hard to go back.