What is it about summer romance? Why — here above the equator, anyway — is there no such thing as a Winter Fling? What were they thinking, re-releasing “Grease” in the spring? Theories abound as to why summer makes us all hot and bothered. For one thing, unless you are Smilla, seasonal shoulder-baring tanks and open-toed sandals are generally considered more flirtatious than the average anorak. Also, unless you are a lifeguard, the summer seems to bring on that crazysexycool feeling of reduced responsibility and urgency: 8 PM looks and feels like 3; vegans say, “Aw, what’s one cheeseburger!” — and since your must-see TV is in reruns, heck, even your VCR is on vacation.

Some experts even say — I am not making this up — that the male body actually produces more testosterone during summer months. Something about the position of the Earth in its orbit around the sun. Whatever. I say it’s because — well, as my friend Matt once pointed out, “there’s hardly a man in America whose hormones don’t start pumping at the thought of searing a huge chunk of cow over the open coals.” (He added: “But when a New Yorkerbarbeques, he gets the added rush of knowing that he’s an outlaw, the Jesse James — Jesse James-Beard? — of the brownstones, because open-flame cooking is apparently illegal in most NY public and private spaces. Which means that barbecuing legally in the city confers yet a different kind of manliness, because it means that the barbecuer has some abnormally large yard or deck. Especially in Manhattan, such real estate identifies the chef as filthy stinking rich. And in this town, there’s nothing more macho than money.”)

And don’t forget summer’s ultimate testoster-offering:fireworks. Now, don’t get me wrong, women love fireworks, too. I adore them, actually. But when women watch them, we think, “Oooh, swirly!” Men think “KA-POW!!!”

Oh, and then, apparently, there’s this trendlet taking place among summer shares in the Hamptons. Since these houses tend to have strict girlfriend/guest policies (as in: against), some guys have gotten the bright idea to kick in for two shares, in case of romance. “I know a bunch of guys who did this,” one Ted Lauer told the New York Times. “Life in January can be very different from life in June.” Indeed. (Are women doing this too? the Times wanted to know. “Not that I know of,” responded one female share-er. “Women are too superstitious. To get a double share in a house thinking you’ll have a boyfriend by summer would be considered a huge jinx.”)

But enough Mars and Venus in the Summer; back to my main point. Whatever the reason, the urge — male and female — for summer love is fierce and unique. Summer romance is, in a way, like summer movies. See, in the winter, we’re picky. We’re not going to bundle up, arrive an hour early (chill, New Yorkers, it’s a movie, not an international flight) and wait on line outside — twice (tickets, then seats) — unless we’re absolutely sure what we’re getting ourselves into. But in the summer, we don’t scour reviews, we don’t care, we don’t ask. The questions get only about as tough as: “If it’s called Mortal Kombat: Annihilation, how will there be a sequel?” or “Mommy, can I have the action figures, soundtrack, and Happy Meal tie-in?” or “How did Godzilla (1998) manage to rip off every movie … except Godzilla?”* or “The a/c’s busted-can we have our money back?: In the summer, we are spineless from lying on our backs in Central Park all day. Our friend wants to see Free Willy IX: Orca Ninja — whatever, we’ll go.

You see where I’m going with this. It’s not that our standards are lower, it’s that they’re different. In the summer, we just want to see a movie; in the summer, we just want to see … someone. Just because. Because it’s summer.

Which is fine with Breakup Girl.

IF.

If you are both on the same page. (Just like I told Miss Fling.) This would be a lousy time, for example, for a hell-of-it hookup with someone who you know wants more. It is a great time to be as vigilant with your feelings as Breakup Mom wants you all to be with your hamburger. If you both know it’s a summer thing — or at least that’s how you feel now — then fine, party on. Or if you feel that it could be the real thing, well then obviously. But no monkey business about, “Well, I’ll let him/her think I think it’s only a summer thing, but after three months of my shoulder-baring tanks and ass-kicking barbeque sauce, s/he’ll come/stick around.” I mean, it might happen. But — to invoke one more “summer” comparison — summer romance is kind of like summer camp. You and your friend(s) are totally inseparable … until you’re separated. To put it another way: how many people do you remember who were 2 Good 2 B 4 Gotten?

Okay, you guys? Go out and play. With SPF 50 on your heart. Also don’t forget that little part on top of your ears.

* source: Paul the Intern