Studying outside in spring even when it’s still 45°F.

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Emerging from the library after long winter nights. The first hint of sun. A collective sigh of relief. But it's still cold, maybe a biting wind. Yet, there's that irresistible pull. You see someone else with a textbook on the quad, huddled in a blanket, maybe a thermos. And suddenly, it’s a silent challenge, a shared ritual. You grab your own notes, maybe an extra sweatshirt, and brave the elements.

It's not about comfort; it's about claiming that space, that sliver of spring, before it truly arrives. It's about breaking free from the stuffy confines of lecture halls and dorm rooms. It's about proving you can, even when every fiber of your being suggests a warmer spot. That faint shiver, the goosebumps – they become part of the memory. It’s a testament to our collective resilience, our peculiar brand of academic masochism mixed with optimism.

For those of us who lived it, whether last semester or decades ago, that 45-degree spring day wasn't just cold; it was a rite of passage. It was the promise of warmer days, the thrill of an early escape, and a reminder that some of our most cherished (or begrudged) traditions were born from sheer will, and a little bit of shared absurdity. It’s what connects us, this odd shared history of embracing the chill for the sake of scholarship, or simply, for the sake of being outside.