The other day it was sunny, like really sunny. I was sitting on my flat balcony where I had a decent view of the sunset. I sat there and watched as the day came to a close, looking down at the people on the street enjoying the sunshine. There were couples wearing linen, some walking hand in hand like the closing scene of a rom-com, and others sitting, eyes closed, on benches, their naked limbs sprawled across one another. They looked beyond content, almost as if they’d been tranquilised. I looked down on them, and then at the sunset, and like a bitter ice queen, felt precisely nothing.
I always look forward to the summer, but when it arrives, like so many other Western wimps with few real problems, I usually feel a mild sense of doom. Why doesn’t summer mean to me what it seemingly means to so many others? Is it just me and Lana who feel summertime sadness?
This year, aged 27, I’m determined to switch up the narrative. I refuse to indulge in being a bitter old witch before my time. I want to be excited for the summer’s offerings – excited for the romance and the hot, sticky sex. So, before we reach underboob sweat temperatures, I want to anticipate any summer woes I may have, and come up with a plan to survive them.
First up: socialising. Summer is like a neverending soiree; there are social happenings occurring every bloody day and everybody is partaking – or so it seems. There is immense pressure to have a good time, to be on top form, to “cheer up, love”. The days are longer, so there is more time we can and should be spending outside. For homebodies or misanthropes like myself, this can be overwhelming, and unappealing. Walking through a park on a glorious day, I will likely see a gaggle of picnicking girlies or trustafarians playing music from a JBL and drinking from cans. They will throw their heads back in laughter and a sense of loneliness will flood my body. Everybody seems so crowded in love and human connection, apart from me. In these moments, what I must remember is this: I do have friends, they just aren’t peppy bastards who like sitting on the grass getting their forearms sunburnt while picking at sweaty salami. And I am grateful for that. I must remind myself that my friends are there, waiting for me, in the shade. Probably in the smoking area of a pub.