Turning Up The Heat

Summertime makes me bold. I don’t know whether it’s the heat, the shedding of layers or simply just all that pent-up hibernation aggression coming out, but I really like the summer version of Rajul.

It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m sitting outside on a shade-blessed bench in a park next to my apartment building, hoping that the wrath of this particular heat wave doesn’t harass my crotchety, old laptop. It’s about 95 degrees and gorgeous. I’m lazy off of two giant slices of pizza (my hangover remedy) still slurping on the last of my Hi-C Fruit Punch trapped under a boulder of ice. As a nice break from my usual bitching, I want to tell you guys about last night, a.k.a. the fun part of being single.

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My cousin Priya, our friend Nina, one of my roommates, Arielle, and I went out for some tapas last night and then to a club near NYU. It was a balmy, beautiful night so I ditched my usual grandma, ‘gotta be in bed by midnight’ mode and got all diva-fied to hit the town. After pre-gaming at the crib, and then some white sangria at the restaurant, we were swaying. Luckily, the spot we picked to go dancing was on point – great music (“Oh shit, I haven’t heard this song since freshman year of college!”), a mixed crowd, and enough room to dance without being “accidentally” groped. Although I do play the predator in that game sometimes. What? A woman can’t cop an ab-feel?

Anyway all the girls I went with are in loving, long-term, committed relationships (wah-wah) so they didn’t even want to dance with any of the men. It’s sweet how loyal they are. However, one of them spotted this fine, racially ambiguous looking dude leaning against the wall. That’s when we all got to staring and drooling.

“Wow.” Priya said. “He’s really, really cute.”

“Dance with him. It’s not sex,” I said, very rationally.

“No. Absolutely not,” she said, in her stern, Catholic school nun tone. “Oh! But you can dance with him. Come on – I’ll live vicariously through you.”

She didn’t have to tell me twice. I went over, asked him to dance (summer boldness) and we broke it down to some overplayed, but always club-friendly Sean Paul reggae. He was a great dancer, too.

And so the evening continued in just that pattern, as the girls elected their choice picks for me to socialize with. It was like a watered-down, less corrupt pimping system. Fantastic! Of course, I got my girly ‘don’t infiltrate the circle’ dance time in with the chicks, which is what led us all way to 4 a.m., at which point I had to drag them out of that place before they turned the lights on.

So as I sit here by the fountain, watching the couple-centric New Yorkers stroll by, holding hands and wallowing in summer-loving bliss, I am pleased to rediscover that being boldly single in the summer can be a healthy alternative. And let’s not forget the charm of an inevitable summer fling (or two?)

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But as the summer hits its peak on those sensual July nights when the humid air feels like foreplay, when clothes become a nuisance and it’s all about sheets on skin and Jazz in the park and desserts fed by moonlight…does a simple fling deserve all of that art that I’m ready to create?

I may be bold, but I’m not reckless. I’m going to learn from my past, from spilling my soul too frivolously. I’ll give him my dance moves, my dinner conversation, and maybe even a little fondle. But as for my grade A summer lovin’? I’m saving that for love.