Debra Pickett

And, with this sea change -- an event every bit as distinct, though nowhere near as predictably scheduled, as the switching on of Buckingham Fountain -- comes a turning point in the city's collective mood.

Relief washes over us. The siege has ended. We can smile and laugh more easily.

Maybe it's biological: a sort of collective, low-grade case of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Or, possibly, it's evolution at work: a dose of patience and goodwill just in time for the start of road construction season.

But whatever the cause, our annual burst of fine weather euphoria arrived yesterday.

'I don't want to be That Guy.'

On the Brown Line, extra-crowded due to the ironically named "Capacity Expansion Project," standing passengers selflessly rearranged themselves to make room for a few more. And at each stop, they piled out onto the platform to allow for easier departures. Rumor had it that a seat had been given up for a pregnant woman, though this could not be independently confirmed.

The thing that everyone noticed, though, the thing that was really notably different on Thursday morning, was the quiet. Strangely and suddenly, cell phone conversation volume had been dialed down to near zero.

A middle-age woman, bragging to a friend about the big award her previously-presumed-to-be-a-slacker son had just won, looked around and realized she was the only commuter in the entire car using the can-you-hear-me-now? tone required for extended phone-on-train chatter and quickly decided she should hang up.

She took only a few more seconds -- just long enough to point out that her ex-husband, who had never shown any faith in, or offered any encouragement of the kid's obviously artistic temperament, should not be invited to the awards banquet -- and then declared, "You know what? I'm on the L and I'm being rude. I'd better go."

For a moment, there was the possibility that a round of spontaneous applause might break out, but no one wanted to be sarcastic and so, instead, everyone just smiled.

An electronic trill soon rippled across this smooth surface of benevolence and well-being and an embarrassed-looking young guy quickly grabbed for his phone.

He asked a couple of brief questions to his caller -- Was it OK to cancel lunch today? Could they meet up sometime this weekend instead? -- and then, following the example of the older woman, he said, "Let me call you later. I'm on the Brown Line right now and I don't want to be That Guy."

Kinder, gentler, warmer

The need to talk on a cell phone would not seem to be a seasonal thing.

It is, presumably, just as necessary to announce in a semi-public way that you are on your way, running late, unsure of directions and/or viciously hung over in the springtime as it is in the fall. And while my understanding of the physics involved is admittedly rather limited, there does not appear to be any marked improvement in sound quality or signal transmission that would make it easier to communicate without shouting or repeating yourself.

Instead, it's simply a question of desire. Perspective, even.

No longer in survival mode, finally releasing muscles that have long been clenched against the wind, it is possible to take a more charitable view of humanity. The shared sense of having come through something -- even, this year, to have gotten off easy -- creates a certain atmosphere of conviviality.

It is, to put it plainly, easy to be nice when you are not cold, miserable and depressed.

Parties for hosting, etc.

Christmas is reputed to be the most wonderful time of the year, but everyone knows that no quantity of spiked egg nog and sugar cookies can really make up for the gnawing, consumerist anxiety associated with attempting to buy gifts for your in-laws.

For my money, this is it: the brief period when things are as excellent as they can possibly be.

So we have to hold on to this moment, when warm weather pleasures -- Mark the demographically appropriate choice: Italian ice, ice cream cone, frappuccino -- are all the more thrilling for having been nearly forgotten, and warm weather complaints, like hair-spoiling humidity, are virtually impossible to imagine.

It will pass, of course. Entirely too quickly.

But for the next few weeks, the city will be shedding its old skin and celebrating its new colors.

And nobody will be That Guy.