Oh, look, it's mid-July, and summer is in full swing. Chicago’s street festivals have outdone themselves yet again, the beach has delivered a few rousing games of volleyball and my winter-white complexion is finally surrendering to the sun. Snow season is a million light-years away, and summer has been, overall, worth the wait.

Except for that one thing that seems to have eluded me during this fair-weathered stint: the summer fling. Winter delivered the cozy video-game-prone boyfriend of a light-less basement apartment and an aversion to venturing outside (fine by me), and spring bounced back with a young, hip dilettante with a regular party schedule and an obscure Itunes library. Enter, summer. With its wealth of outdoor activities, short shorts and beer gardens, I was promised a slew of eligible young gentlemen, primed for a fling. (noun: a 3-month, casual encounter with unspoken codes of conduct set in place by summer romances past, full of al fresco dining, hot summer nights and a tragic but necessary parting come sweater-season.) Well, a few unpromising encounters and an all-too-eager suitor later (call me come February) leaves me with nothing short of seasonal affective disorder. Until one day…

I meet "M." (cue trumpets) M was at a mutual friend’s dinner party, and we hit it off right away. Numbers were exchanged, plans tossed around, and wham bam thank you ma’am we were Facebooking. Before I knew it, I was blowing off Mr. Come-To-My-Sister’s-Wedding and skipping a heartbeat when I heard the beep-beep-beep of my text message notification (or whenever someone unlocks an SUV. It’s really too cruel; I should change my ring tone.) Finally a DATE was set. We were to meet at M’s place for drinks, head to an art show and then to a friend’s birthday soiree. A perfect summer night. Roommate Dennis and I agonized over outfits (too “dressy” to too “messy“ to too “Karen Allen circa Raiders of the Lost Ark”) until I had concocted the perfect summer ensemble. Running late, I booked it to the Clark bus, breathlessly ran up M’s steps, overzealously rang the bell and gave my smartest smile as…

She answered the door. That’s right. “M" is a girl. Ha! I knew it all along, but I had you going for a while, huh? Yup, wearing a stylish dress (that I could totally borrow) with a vodka tonic in hand, I knew I had found my summer fling. We shared our respective travel adventures, career aspirations and of course, boy dramas, over many a cocktail before we headed out to start the night. A cross-town bus ride, an art show and a 7-11 slurpee later, I found myself in a well-lit alley with M and some of my friends who had come to meet us and share in the blissful summer night.

As we sat around, loudly laughing and passing around the pomegranate-green apple slurpee (yes, the flavor of summer), I couldn’t believe I had it this good. Who needs a fair-weather fling when I’ve found an all-weather friend? Let’s admit it, flings seem like a good idea in the throes of humidity, but after the ice cream has melted and the sniffles set in, what we once fell for in our idealistic fling can fade just as fast as those summer tans.

Instead, with my new friend and some tried-and-true old ones, in a city that was made for its summers, I finally feel seasonally satisfied, and for all seasons! But let’s wait a little bit longer for that sweater. This is too good to fling away.

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