Every year, the calendar flips to March and I convince myself it’s over. Winter is done. I can put the heavy coat away. I can think about iced coffee again.

And then April hits and it’s still 4 degrees and raining sideways.

There’s this collective delusion that Torontonians participate in every spring — we see one sunny, 12-degree day in late March and collectively decide that’s it, that’s the season. We’re in our thin jackets at Trinity Bellwoods, squinting into watery sunlight like plants that have been deprived for too long. And we are. We have been.

The thing is, spring in Toronto isn’t really a season. It’s a mood that arrives intermittently with no warning and no commitment. It shows up for a Tuesday, then ghosts you until May.

I moved through three different coat weights last week alone. That’s not a season. That’s a personality disorder.

Real spring — the kind with warmth you can feel on your arms, the kind that makes you want to sit outside on purpose — doesn’t arrive here until late May at the earliest. Everything before that is just winter negotiating its exit terms.

But every year, without fail, I fall for it. The first 10-degree day and I’m planning patio brunch like a fool.

Toronto, you have until June. I’m watching.