After weeks and weeks of rain, the New York skies are once again a clear and (relatively) bright blue, with temperatures soaring to the mid-nineties. Meaning that, throughout the city, New Yorkers are busy wandering the sweltering streets in their favorite pairs of blue jeans.

Sure, anywhere else in the country, pulling out your trusty dungarees as the mercury pushed 100 would seem (at best) somewhat suicidal. But in New York, it’s a way of life. To many New Yorkers, there is no temperature so high, no air so thickly humid, that it might justify the sartorial holocaust of baring their knobby knees, nearly translucent from a winter of nothing but sickly yellow indoor lighting.

But don’t cry for us; we knew what we were getting into when we moved here. After all, New York has always been a city of form before function, a world fashion capital (vying only Paris and Milan) collectively obsessed with haute couture. Which, consequently, dictates a remarkably small number of acceptable summer alternatives to the denim standard: for young women, the classic a-line skirt; for gay men (or displaced Europeans), slides and capris; and for straight men such as myself, khakis, khakis and more khakis, as far as the eye can see (though only with flat-front and straight-leg; certainly never the pleated business-casual monstrosities filling your father’s closet).

But what about shorts? I hear you say. Not bloody likely. You might as well strap on a fanny pack and a pair of Tevas (worn with socks, naturally), emblazoning “clueless Midwestern tourist” on your forehead and resigning to pitying looks of “why don’t you just go back to your fly-over state, you mouth-breathing, NASCAR-watching troglodyte?”

With trucker hats on the out and out, however, and blue-collar chic in general on the decline, Williamsburg hipsters are busy searching for new ironic fashion trends, and I’d put even money on faux-tourist becoming the next big thing. So perhaps it is time to forget the NYC jeans tradition; it’s the jean shorts that may be on the cutting edge.

And at the end of the day, of course, it doesn’t really much matter what you wear, because we New Yorkers don’t really have a clue what we’re talking about. For all its veneer of cool, New York is a slightly desperate city: Millions of people wanting to be different, though only in the same way as everyone else. A horde of reluctant fashionistas, following trends not because we actually give a shit, but because we’re terrified of looking like outsiders. Sheeplike followers desperately yet surreptitiously eyeing each other to make sure we haven’t missed new and ever more cutting-edge trends.

So wear whatever the hell you want. But do it like you mean it. Exude confidence and a steely-eyed glint that says “if you don’t realize how much better dressed than you this outfit makes me, you clearly need to renew your subscriptions to Paper, Nylon, Flaunt and Ocean Drive.” Or just wear jeans; no matter how fashion-backwards you may feel, in New York City, a good pair of 501s will never steer you wrong.