The ideal summer is one where you're happy, whether you're on the couch or beach, says Jessica Keane. Photo: RNZ
It was the summer my mum unironically bought me a corrugated 'Live, Laugh, Love' sign. And everyone I knew (and didn't know) was somewhere either very hot or very cold.
I was spending my days in the humidity that only inland New Zealand can bring, and every attempt at begging for the air con to be switched on was met with "Just open a window". And any reasoning was met with... the look (read: you're dreaming if you think I'm paying that power bill buddy).
We spent our days with sweaty thighs firmly stuck to the couch, gorging ourselves on Christmas leftovers.
And then, as per tradition, in the week that followed, everyone took turns opening and shutting the fridge, asking where all the leftovers had gone - hoping that somehow, like magic, every chicken drumstick and slice of cheesecake would be waiting for us, carefully re-constructed and covered in clingfilm, ready for a third hoorah - like the endless TimTam packet of TV old.
My phone screen was taken up with everyone else having the best summer ever. Their photos showed cold Coke on warm sand, perfectly fitting fits, new tattoos, new loves of lives - new memories to last a lifetime. And I couldn't help but feel that perhaps I was missing out on something that I was supposed to be wanting for myself.
For me, the cute dresses were left behind, in favour of sweats and top knots. The stack of books that I was never going to read, yet took up half the space in my suitcase, sat firmly untouched. And Christmas Hallmark-esque movies with their fake snow and actors you recognise from somewhere but can't quite place, were on high rotation. Leaving the house was only undertaken for the purpose of gentle strolls around the park, patting dogs, or a choc-dipped Mr Whippy.
Jessica Keane can't help but notice everyone living it up over summer, something she promised herself she'd do this time. Photo: RNZ
I remembered with a sudden "aha!" - that this was meant to be the year I did something with my summer. Drink cold Coke on the beach, wear something short and cute to show off the tattoo I would have gotten just a few days before, still neatly wrapped in clingfilm, lived, laughed, and loved it all up. But I had the exact same "aha!" moment the year before that one, and the year before that too... Like clockwork, summer had come around and as much as I told myself I would carpe that diem, I could think of nothing I would rather do less. By December, my social battery isn't just sitting at a deficit, it needs a full-blown replacement.
See, my problem is and always has been: I enjoy doing nothing. In fact, I thrive on it. An empty calendar is a dream, something to which to aspire.
It's not that I chose to be like this. It's in my DNA. Some people have sporty families, outdoorsy families, board game families - I have a tired family. We're all tired. Tired of remembering to take our vitamins, to do the washing, to fill the car up with petrol, of looking for carparks, of remembering to call this person or that person back, to take the chicken out to defrost, to buy the chicken, and before that to check your bank account before you reach the counter to make sure that you can buy the chicken in the first place, tired of catching colds, tired of being tired. Just flat-out tired.
So, I push the fear of looking like I'm missing out aside and do what my heart truly desires, what will truly make me happy. When mum's not looking, I fire up the air con. I open and close the fridge door, analyse fake snow, and definitely do not leave the house - except for Mr Whippy. And in that living room I have all the living, loving, and laughing I need to get my battery back to zero - until next summer.
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