My morning routine is pretty blasé. I wake up to the sound of a hand-me-down clock radio made in 1902 (probably more like the mid to late ‘90s, but if you saw it, your best guess would likely be as good as mine. For an exact date, you’ll have to speak with my pops) blaring 91X’s non-existent morning show. After pressing the wrong button on the clock for the 134th time, the music finally ceases and I shoot out of bed.

I walk straight to my television, flip it on and tune into Matt Lauer’s handsome face telling me all about the breaking world news that I, more than likely, could not possibly care any less about. “The Today Show” serves as pretty entertaining background noise as I get myself ready for the day. The usual every-morning routine goes down and, while I could go into detail, I’m sure you’ve seen some variation of it in one getting-ready-for-a date-during-the-opening-of-a-movie montage or another. It’s all pretty mundane and robotic until I hear Al Roker’s peppy voice utter the words that determine how the following 15 minutes of my day are going to play out.

I was raised in a household with a mother who set out my clothes before bed every night until I started high school (I’m sure it continued later than that, but for the sake of my reputation and in an attempt to avoid complete and total mortification, we’ll say it ceased when I was 12). I woke up in the morning and getting dressed was a no-brainer. Maybe it was her tingling mom senses, but she always knew whether to put out long sleeves or short sleeves. She knew whether to include a cardigan or a hoodie. She just knew. Now, I know what you’re thinking and no, I do not, at 21 years old, still have my mom set out my clothes before I go to bed. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t mentally plan outfits the night before. But back to Al Roker …

Regardless of whether or not I have picked out an outfit, I patiently wait for Mr. Roker to say the words I need to start my day. “Here’s what’s happening … in your neck of the woods.”

That’s when I drop whatever I’m doing — whether it be makeup brush, toothbrush or hairbrush — and wait for the adorable Jodi Kodesh to tell me what to expect from the weather outside my door. After the information is delivered in a timely manner and before NBC switches back to Roker standing in the plaza looking 4 to 6 inches shorter than the rest of the anchors, I know exactly how to dress. I’ve lived in my skin for 21 years, so I know how it goes. It’s simple, really: above 70 degrees, no jacket; less than 70 degrees, jacket. That’s pretty much it. No ifs, ands or buts.

So tell me why, no matter what the weather report says that morning, I never fail to see students around campus who have decided to either a) not care about overheating in the middle of the day, b) not care about freezing in the middle of the day or c) my favorite, have a blatant disregard for appropriate clothing, no matter the season.

Tell me why, in a 50-degree chill, I see girls walking around in micro shorts and tank tops. Tell me why, in the blazing San Diego mid-February summer, I see girls walking around in scarves and sweatshirts. Have they not learned by the time they’ve entered early adulthood that morning fog burns off? Have they not learned if it’s raining when they leave the house it may, possibly, stay that cold for the remainder of the day and, perhaps, may not be the best day for flip-flops? Have they not learned there are, literally, hundreds of websites and news channels that predict the weather to help them decide what to wear?

I’m just singling out the ladies here. Everywhere I look, most (or possibly all) male students at San Diego State will match the micro-short, tank-top combo with a standard SDSU boy’s uniform of basketball shorts and flamboyant tank tops.

Let me save you all some midday discomfort and offer you a page from my book: Check the weather report, listen to Al Roker (he is the most trusted man in news) and for God’s sake, if it’s June and I see you in a scarf, I’m gonna whip it off you faster than you can put on last season’s rain boots.

—Hayley Rafner is a media studies junior.