An ode to the summer romance

Also known as heatwave delulu

Summer’s here. Maybe it’s because I like myself more in the sun (to be honest, I like everyone else more in the sun, too) but I’ve let my mind wander to the magical notion that is a summer romance. I’m a sucker for summer love. The thoughts of heartbreak and despair? Long gone. Summer brings about renewed hope. A new love in the sun. Clammy nights with the occasional breeze through a tiny cracked window offering reprieve (it’s bugs or air, you know?). Slow dinners on never ending evenings. Giggles as ice creams melt down fingers. Lazy mornings when food and drink are forgotten. Long hot walks with iced coffees. Dancing like no one’s watching. Passion. Joy.

You can find me at any sunset romanticising my life all summer long.

Summer is here and you might notice I’m a romantic again. You want to tell me the hour long story of your new relationship’s beginnings? I’m listening.

Want to tell me about how great your sex life is while we’re dancing at the club at 1am? Cool. I’m here for it.

PDA-ing hard on the beach? Love that for you (but just so you know we all know what you’re up to in the sea… You’re not slick about it).

Thinking of sending me a ‘view once’ photo of you and new bae looking hot? Send it. You know I’ll scream.

Filling me in on how you undressed your partner on the cobbled streets of your European city break spot? Sweet. I’m cheering you on.

Voice noting me a five minute description of how perfect she is? I’ll be listening on 0.5x because I need time to process as I’m smiling, kicking my feet.

I appreciate I am feeding into — what my Gen Z friends refer to as — the delulu, but why not?

A friend once suggested that a new relationship I was embarking on was ‘just a summer romance.’ The audacity to suggest that a love that started in the sweaty, twerk-heavy crowd of a hip hop festival wasn’t ‘it’. Imagine. I was incensed. I never wanted to talk to him again. Although I proved him wrong and it lasted two summers, if he said that to me now I’d take it as a huge compliment. The fervour to share the best time of the year with one person — a new person — is beautiful. Why wouldn’t I want to be (non-alcoholic, please) wined and dined, cared for and caressed, loved and admired by a hot, interesting, smart guy? Why wouldn’t I want to travel about with someone I deeply connect with? To laugh with? To make memories with? To write a love story with? What if it’s the beginning of my forever love? And if it turns out to be a fleeting summer romance, it was still love.

Yes, I know not everything lasts. Although I might be your classic, basic bitch romantic who doesn’t understand the idea of temporary — I see summer love as chapter one of a gorgeous novel — I know suns set.

Our summer loves might not make it to autumn. But if we break, and fall and burn in the flames of a car crash ending, we will know we gave it our all. We loved hard. We found pleasure. We met joy with open arms.

And, look, it might take a year or two or ten, but maybe one day you’ll be lying on the beach on a heatwave kind of Sunday writing about summer love and you’ll find yourself pleasantly surprised to be reminiscing about the moment you danced your heart out, without a care in the world, with a boy on another beach in another country, and you’ll smile. And it will give you hope to carry you through to next summer.

So, make that ‘stupid’ decision. Book that flight. Spend that time. Make that call. Send that text. These are the good times and life is too short to not give every chance at love your all.