Hey babe, it’s time for Love Island

For six weeks during the summer months, the most uttered phrase in our household is Love Island comes on at 9pm.

The hour or sometimes longer episodes are a dependable comfort in an uncertain world. Despite the headlines in the newspaper, the threats of natural disasters, the fear for our neighbors and community, or the disagreement in values with friends and families, Love Island provides relief from the many things we can’t control. It’s an escape. What it must be like to be removed from society altogether. No cell phones, no news, no internet, no knowledge of what’s happening in your own backyard.

Is ignorance really bliss?

I pretend it is.

I left social media behind in April 2024. When doomscrolling led to panic attacks, I knew it was time for a change. I’d spend hours swiping through my phone, most of the time not even enjoying the media I was consuming, but unable to stop. Then I’d go to bed and regret all the things I should’ve done with that time.

I should have written.

I should have exercised.

I should have called my mom.

Fill in the phrase with your most abandoned activity. The one you always say, “but if I just had more time I would…” It’s a lie, but like Love Island, it’s a dependable comfort.

My interest in Love Island happened by accident. In the early days of finding the right medication to treat my OCD and depression (which I don’t recommend doing in tandem with quitting social media), I couldn’t stand to be alone in my own home at night. I would stress about when my husband would come home, and in turn, stress him out with my constant questions. He would dread answering my calls, knowing my anxiety about being alone would bleed through the phone to dim his good time.

And on one of these such nights when I knew he would be gone until at least midnight; I begged a friend to spend the evening with me. We made girl dinner while under the influence of a sweet and heady high, laughing about nothing and exclaiming over the elegance of a peach and tomato salad with burrata cheese that no man would ever appreciate as much as the two of us. Then we settled on the couch, and on a whim, I played Love Island.

My friend would later accuse me of playing the show as a means to keep her at my house as late as possible. She wasn’t wrong.

We watched the first episode of Love Island season 6.

We giggled as the men performed a choreographed dance to I Came Here for Love.

We squealed when Coy literally swept Serena off her feet when they kissed in the first challenge, placing our bets on who would couple up together.

We cringed over the embarrassment we’d feel having to declare our interest in a man in front of other people, not knowing if it’d be reciprocated.

And from that first episode, I was hooked.

The two of us binge-watched the entire season. The night of the reunion, we gathered at my house again to watch it live, together. Then we immediately longed for the reprieve of a new season to give us that same exhilarated high we could only get by smoking weed.

Throughout it all, my husband was an ever-lingering presence.

He’d comment on the fashion choices (he hated Rob’s overalls and snake tattoo), and express shock at the challenges and fights (anyone remember when Kaylor kissed Hakeem and Aaron couldn’t deal?).

He’d say the show was stupid. All those people were crazy. Who would willingly do something like this.

And yet he’d also ask questions.

Was so-and-so still on the island?

What’s that guy’s problem?

She said what?

I would shush him during the action and catch him up on the commercial breaks.

But he maintained he didn’t like Love Island, even as he relaxed on our velvet loveseat in front of the TV while it played and asked his questions.

It reminds me of my dad.

Growing up in the early aughts was a unique experience. Those were the days of shared computer rooms and family TVs with no privacy. To have a personal TV in your room was a privilege granted to few.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always craved solitude. I love the quiet and shows I don’t have to think too hard about. I’d rather read a book in my room than sit in the living room and watch a loud movie with everyone. What I know now is I’m sensory sensitive, the only one in my family of sensory seekers. They craved noise and suspenseful movies with music that made my skin crawl with dread. My sister played piano, and my dad liked to forcefully bang on the keys to make noise, or maybe make his presence known (neither would surprise me).

If you wanted to watch TV, your options were the open floor living room or the large TV in the den, where you could close the door. I hated the living room TV because there was no privacy. At that time, the connotation of reality TV was that it was trashy. It was inappropriate and only tolerated for the point of judgement. For making yourself feel better about your own life.

Anything in the vein of reality TV was cause to be mocked or shamed in my family, particularly by my dad. I didn’t want to give my dad fodder to poke fun at me later. To laugh at my expense. And then snap at me when I didn’t respond well to his ‘joking’ or even respond at all. Then I was  rude and had an attitude. Then came the why are you always in a bad mood.

The criticism was inescapable. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

When I was in middle school, I saved up to buy my own TV for my room. My parents said if I bought it myself, I could have it. I saved for months. Every penny, every spare dollar, every birthday and Christmas card until I had enough. I had my eye set on a small TV with a VHS player and the output to connect a DVD player. It was $100 at Walmart. The day I had the money, I begged my mom to take me to get it.

The TV only had basic cable, but it didn’t matter. To me, the TV represented freedom. Privacy. Comfort. Control over my environment at a time when I had zero control over my life.

Ironically, 20 years later, I refuse to have a TV in my bedroom. We only have TVs mounted in our shared spaces of the house.

The difference now?

There’s no fear of criticism from my partner about what I’m watching. He may say he doesn’t like my reality TV shows and scoff at people on the screen or roll his eyes at someone wearing a cowboy hat, but it’s not vitriolic. When my dad cast judgment, it was always at someone else’s expense. Usually, mine.

Most of my life I didn’t watch reality TV. It was tainted by condescension.

My dad’s presence in the house growing up felt like a specter. He couldn’t bear to be left out of a conversation. If you watched TV he didn’t care about, he wouldn’t simply leave the room, but hover to assert his commentary in a bid to stave off his fear of missing out.

This summer, my husband buried his own dad. Quite literally—he dug the two-foot-deep hole on a property in West Virginia. The same property he visited with his dad every summer for almost 30 years. Last year was his dad’s last visit. We knew it was his last time. He was riddled with cancer, and our optimism of recovery was slipping. My father-in-law wished to be cremated, and his ashes buried on the property he loved spending time at with his son.

This property holds a cabin. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s quite homey. They don’t have electricity. There’s no internet and no cell service. They don’t even have a flushing toilet, but there is an outhouse. Years ago, they installed a shower with hot water but placed it in the outhouse. If a woman had been consulted on that particular project, there likely would’ve been a much different outcome where you didn’t have the smell of the outhouse penetrating your one creature comfort.

At this property, you’re removed from the uncertainty of the world because you’re not interacting with it. You’re simply there to be.

While my husband stays at this cabin in West Virginia, the only way to reach him is to call the single landline. They can’t make calls out, but they can answer them. I try to call at what I deem ‘appropriate’ times, usually sometime in the evening between 7-9pm. I try not to call too often, either. I want my partner to relax and unwind and not be bothered by the stresses of life he’s out there to avoid.

But when you do call, the men at the cabin have a ritual.

Whenever I asked to speak with Ben, the men were very accommodating, but not without a little harmless fun. As they place the phone down to shout for Ben, I can hear my husband’s loud, booming voice clear as day as he draws near, laughing at the ooohhhhs and ahhhhs and kissy noises the men make to embarrass him.

We’ve been together for 10 years now. They’ve done this every year.

This year, I called Ben often the first few days. I was worried about his mental health because, well, he buried his dad. We would check in, we would talk about boundaries, he would relay the insights and vulnerable conversations he was having with the other men who had lost their fathers. We would hold space for grief. And at the end of each conversation, he would say:

“Hey babe, it’s almost 9. Isn’t it time for Love Island?”