We’ve got hot summer nights on the horizon. Come on, it’s an election year. In thinking about the days ahead of heated debates, accusations and counter accusations, I made some resolutions I’d like to share:

• I resolve not to get too caught up in politics. No, seriously. I’m not going to count the days — 138, but who’s counting? — before the election.

• I resolve not to study a single political poll between now and Nov. 8, which is, as I mentioned but we’re not going to talk about, 138 days away.

• I resolve I will not watch too many debates when I have better things to do. I might need to clip my toenails. Or, maybe, a movie I’ve seen 20 times, like “Bull Durham” will be on TV and I’ll just have to watch that scene one more time when the players come to the mound to discuss wedding gifts and cursed gloves.

• I resolve not to focus on the number of times either candidate calls the other one a liar. If they do, however, I resolve to imagine that candidate adding, “liar, liar, pants on fire,” to add some levity to the accusation.

• I resolve not to worry too much that one of these two people whom I don’t particularly like will be president. Seriously, we’ve got all these people eager for power and these two are the best we can find? Not everyone wants to be president, but doesn’t this seem like the perfect time for a dark horse to throw his or her hat in the ring?

• I resolve to avoid listening to pundits. I don’t want to hear how you absolutely think your candidate won the debate and the other candidate completely lost the debate, the election and his or her mind the other night. Can you imagine two pundits watching everything you did in a day?

Pundit 1: “Oh, he totally nailed that plaque on his teeth. He won’t need to brush his teeth for a week after a performance like that.”

Pundit 2: “Are you kidding? Do you think he gave the molars any attention? I’ve spoken to the molars and they are feeling neglected. I have a way to brush that would fight for every tooth and not just the ones on top.”

My only pundit exception is David Gergen: He’s smart and funny, has a deep authoritative voice and he’s really tall, so it looks like he’s observing everything from on high. Besides, in the early 1990s I met him, not to name drop or anything, and he actually listened carefully to a question I asked.

• I resolve to do 10 push-ups every time I hear one of the candidates, in an advertisement or during a TV or radio news program, use the word “fight.” I figure if they argue that they’ll fight for me, I might as well fight for my own fitness. Maybe I’ll do 20 sit-ups every time I watch them shake their heads in frustration when describing the ridiculous and calamitous choice on the other side of the aisle.

• I resolve to think of the two candidates as the leaders of their packs on a middle school playground. Each time one of them is emotionally wounded and levels accusations against the other, I will imagine that they are just going through a difficult phase in their political career and that they’ll be OK once they get to high school.

• Finally, no matter what, I resolve to remind myself that the Constitution guarantees us checks and balances. That means, regardless of the final “winner,” other leaders can protect all our interests.

I am you and you are me. We, the people of this country and this planet, share something people hundreds of years before and hundreds of years hence can’t possibly have in common with us: now.

What defines “now”? Labels. We are tremendously caught up in them. Who are the good guys and who are the bad guys? And then, something happens, something unimaginable in Florida, and it’s clear at least one person directed his hatred toward one particular group.

This was an attack on the gay community. Other labels will undoubtedly stick and motives will undoubtedly be uncovered, but it was an attack on gay America. Sure, it was terrorism, because it was terrible and it was shockingly violent, but it was, first and foremost, an attack on a community.

There’s a moving scene at the end of the Kevin Kline film, “In & Out,” at a high school graduation in which everyone stands up and says they are gay in support of Kline, who is on the verge of losing his job because of his sexual orientation.

As we watched a moving Tony Awards ceremony, I hoped someone would step to the microphone and say, “I’m gay and anyone else who is gay today, please stand with me.” I’m sure the entire audience would have stood up.

For today, tomorrow and for the foreseeable future, we are all gay. We are all lesbian, bisexuals and transgender. We are like the Danish people who, legend has it, put yellow stars on their clothing to make it impossible to distinguish Jewish Danes from fellow Danes during World War II. There is some debate about whether Christian X, the king of Denmark, put the Jewish star on his clothing. What is clear, however, is that the Danes did what they could in a horrible time to save their citizens from discrimination and death by helping them escape to Sweden.

In the here and now, with so much blood, so many tears and such incomprehensible loss, there is something we can do for our fellow Americans: We can be gay. I’m not suggesting we all need same-sex partners, merely, that the label that seems so toxic to some applies to all of us.

We live with such random acts of terror and violence. Far too often, the president of the United States has become the Mourner in Chief. Maybe, instead, he should be gay, too.

Let’s not wait for a reluctant and divided Congress to act and to take action on guns, or on hate, or on love. Let’s embrace and understand each other.

There will be plenty of people pointing fingers. The FBI was watching this killer through different points in his life. Did they miss anything? I’m sure there’ll be plenty of people who will suggest that if the clubgoers had had guns, this killer wouldn’t have been as effective because someone would have been able to take him out before he did all that damage. Is that really what we want, a bunch of people in a club with guns? Would that really make us safer? It’s a bit like the mutually assured destruction argument during the Cold War. Maybe it was so irrational to consider destroying the world that no one pushed the button, but we still have all those weapons and there is still plenty of hate and fear. We and the former Soviet Union spent billions on weapons when those resources might have cured cancer, improved food crops or developed cheaper, cleaner energy.

So, how do we stop the hate? We stand up, we unite, we share — and we recognize that I am you and you are me.

We all have addictions. I don’t mean we’re all addicted to a narcotic, to alcohol or to something that can cause harm to us, to our families or to our communities.

We think of addictions as negatives, because they suggest a dependency or a need for something without which we find ourselves unbalanced, uncomfortable or unhinged.

There are plenty of positive addictions. Many of us are, for better or worse, addicted to our children. We want them to succeed, to be happy, to live better lives than we’ve had and to have every opportunity to find their niche.

When they’re born, we become addicted to the sound of their giggling and laughter, which helps us get through those sleepless nights just as effectively as a caffeinated beverage. That sound is more pleasant than the most magnificent music we’ve ever heard, than the calls of birds outside our windows in the morning, or than the school bell that signaled the end of another week and the start of a much-anticipated weekend.

Outside of the home, we can become addicted to victory, whether it’s at work, on a softball field where we are competing against a group of people from another company, or at a traffic light where we want to beat the car next to us to the on-ramp for the Long Island Expressway.

Our bodies become accustomed to these addictions. Runners receive chemical endorphins in the brain that give them a high, allowing them to run much longer than someone whose would-be endorphins are knocked unconscious by alcohol or are far too overwhelmed from sugar overload to become active. When you’re driving in extreme heat or cold and you see runners pushing themselves up a steep hill, they are feeding that addiction.

Speaking of feeding, we are addicted to particular foods, or food groups. If we eat cookies every night, our bodies send signals to our brains to find those chocolate chip cookies. We can also become addicted to foods that are healthy for us, like broccoli, blueberries or gluten-free kale pizza.

We can also become addicted to long days of summer sun. When the fall and winter come, we might miss the light, craving it the way we would another cup of mid-afternoon coffee when we’re feeling run down through the day.

But is addiction really the right word? Aren’t these habits and not addictions? I see addictions and habits as a spectrum, somewhat akin to the discussion about what is normal. We all tend to believe we’re normal, but as we know from our own families and from the families we marry into, the range of normal is broad. Every family has its crazy uncles, its eccentric aunts and its oddball distant cousins. Much as we might like to believe the grass is greener with other families, we know that the more we interact with extended family groups, the more likely we are to observe behaviors that fall outside the range of what we consider normal.

So, if we recognize our addictions, can we change them?

Like any addiction, change is challenging. Plenty of support groups offer help, especially with addictions to alcohol, drugs or other substances. There are also groups like Jenny Craig, which offer to provide balanced meals that help people transition to a different diet.

Even without support groups, though, people can fundamentally change some of their addictions, often when they are so concerned with the happiness of someone else — a spouse, a child, a niece or a parent — that their own needs no longer come first.

All the world’s a stage.

I read those words long ago, but didn’t appreciate the stage itself until recently. As a child, I struggled to wade through school books rife with flowing descriptions. Who cares what kinds of trees are outside the house, if there is a swing set near someone’s first kiss or if a fog sits heavy on a town?

When I was my son’s age, I found those details as relevant as the cars that drove by me on my walk to junior high school. Action and dialogue meant so much more. I wanted to hear what people said or know what they were thinking.

I now appreciate the stage more than ever. In fact, I’d like to go back to Ward Melville High School and thank the stage crew for building sets that turned the stage into the Upper West Side in the 1950s or a yellow brick road.

My appreciation for a setting, however, extends beyond the actual stage. It’s in the seats of an auditorium, where a shared armrest becomes the location for the first tentative effort to hold hands.

The setting continues through the wooden doors that, like eyes focusing from a distance, have opened simultaneously, allowing an appreciative audience its first glimpse of the land that awaits. It’s a part of the marble hallway, where the chatter of birds on nearby trees supplants the chitchat of children, who seem to race out through a revolving glass door that allows the nearby rays of the sun to pour inside.

We can shift our attention to blades of grass on the playground, where an undersized third-grade transfer student catches a fly ball for the first time and suddenly feels as if everything will be OK in his new town. That same blade of grass can provide cover for an earthworm as it looks to go back underground after a heavy rainstorm, lest the birds circling overhead stop to bring the worm back to a nest of hungry birds waiting at the top of an awning on a boarded-up house the children believe is haunted.

A setting can become altered the way a police siren appears to change from the Doppler effect. Even though the alarm wails at the same frequency, its pitch seems different as the sound approaches. The basketball net that appeared to be impossibly high when we were in first grade is remarkably close to our hands as we age, making us feel as if we’ve become Gulliver in our own lives.

Nostalgia can imbue a setting with emotion. I recently drove down my old block. I saw a version of me that was younger than my children are now. I could see myself staring out the side window of my room across a row of evergreens, letting my eyes become blurry to soften the colors of the red, green, purple, yellow and white Christmas lights down the block. If we were lucky some evenings, the snow would cause the lights to flicker.

Down below those tall evergreens and just outside my front window were several bushes. During the fall, with a full moon and a violent wind, the needles on those bushes transformed into a man with a mohawk hairstyle swaying back and forth.

One morning, those bushes disappeared. I tentatively pulled back the shade, where a dump truck of snow buried my menacing friend. The bushes bent over double, as if the man with the mohawk had taken a hard punch to the gut.

As I squinted at the scene, I knew that I had aged but the man with the mohawk hadn’t.

Yes, each setting is alive with possibilities.

You’ve got a friend in me.

You ain’t never had a friend like me.

You want a friend in this town? Get a dog.

You’re not my friend anymore.

And, perhaps, one of history’s deepest friend cuts, “Et tu, Brute?” Then again, I’m not sure how much Julius Caesar considered Brutus his friend on that fateful day.

We’ve all heard about or had unusual, spectacular and backstabbing friends. These people, who aren’t our relatives but with whom we voluntarily spend time, are in a category of people that distinguishes them from strangers who push past us on the freeway, along the sidewalk or the line at the cafeteria.

And while we’re certainly aware of the dangers of unrequited love from literature and history, are there unrequited friendships?

If you believe a recent study out of Tel Aviv University in Israel, the answer is a resounding “yes,” and it happens more often than we might hope. This research found that only half of those other people called their friends returned the favor. That means if you like John and Joe, chances are John might like you, but Joe could be somewhere between indifferent to you or annoyed at the way you tap his arm each time you say something too insignificant to break physical boundaries to share.

So, that left me in a quandary. How do I know who I want to be my friends and who wants me to be his or her friend?

Maybe, I thought, as my wife and I went out to dinner for the first time with another couple, we would become friends with two people at once. Could this, like that famous line in “Casablanca,” be “the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”

I had no such dramatic hopes, focusing instead on the little stuff: What should I wear, what would we discuss, did we have anything in common — and should I try to order quietly with the waiter while my wife distracted the couple so they didn’t know I was lactose intolerant?

A few moments after we sat down, I realized I didn’t have to speed read through the menu looking for items that my children would tolerate.

The woman from the other couple did the equivalent of shooting layups, as the rest of us listened. She shared stories about the academic and extracurricular interests of her children. That, I thought as I nodded politely at everything she said, was friendly enough.

Gradually we worked into a comfortable rhythm, even venturing into the potentially treacherous area of national politics. When I brought it up, I knew I ran the risk of talking with someone with incredibly strong opinions that conflicted with my own. Within seconds, however, it was clear that all four of us held similar political views.

When the evening ended, the men shook hands and gave social air kisses to the wives. The evening went well; I don’t think I embarrassed myself, my children or my wife. Now, are these people our friends? Not yet, I suppose, but the four of us are, perhaps, friendlier.

As we drove to pick up our son, who was at a late-night party with around 100 of his closest friends that would undoubtedly make him irrational and irascible the next day, I recalled the warnings about the dangers of becoming friends with our kids. They don’t need friends. Rather, what they need are authority figures who can tell them what they don’t want to hear, or so the advice goes.

But, wait, like a good movie where the solution is right in front of my face, I recalled a friendly tip from long ago: It’s important to be friends with the person you are dating. That, I realized, was excellent advice. It’s much easier to share a life with the one out of two people who reciprocates a friendship.

I can’t see anything up close with my glasses on and I can’t see anything at a distance with my glasses off. I know, I know, welcome to getting old. Well, I’d like to give that aging process a big fat Bronx cheer.

But, wait, technology can come to the rescue. No, I’m not talking about laser surgery and I’m not looking for a special blended form of bifocal, trifocal or whatever. No, you see, technology makes it possible for me to use my state-of-the-art smartphone without needing to see it.

“Siri, send a text message to my wife,” I can say.

To which the automatic voice activation feature will reply, “What is your wife’s name?” And then, when I don’t reply in time, the voice will say, “I’m not sure what you said there.”

But assuming Siri and I can get on the same page about the desired recipient of my intended message, I can start talking into the phone and she will take dictation. No need for an administrative assistant like Mrs. Wiggins, courtesy of Carol Burnett, to take a memo.

Except that, like Mrs. Wiggins, there are some potential comedic kinks in the system. For one thing, whenever I start a text or email with the word Hi, Siri only seems to hear the letter “I.” My texts start out with “I Dr. Smith.” It’s a poor start to have a missing letter at the beginning of a text or email that I can’t check because I can’t see well with my glasses on and I can’t take my glasses off in that moment.

While Siri gets most of the words right, sometimes she struggles with grammar and words that are pronounced alike — such as to, too and two. Or what I mumble. I admit that I don’t always speak clearly. In fact, when I say, “This is Dan,” people sometimes hear, “This is Stan,” because I don’t pause long enough before saying my name.

I was discussing this problem with a friend of mine, who spends a considerable number of hours in the car each week, traveling from one job to another. He said he dictates emails and text messages on his phone constantly to make use of his travel time.

“Hey, be careful when you’re dictating, particularly when you’re driving,” he cautioned.

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, you know that thing picks up everything you say, right?”

“Yeah?” I asked, tilting my head to the side and waiting for a punch line.

“The other day I was driving and I sent an email that went something like this:

“Dear Mr. Jones, I got your response to my invoice and … oh, so you thought cutting me off in my lane was a good idea? And you didn’t even use your blinker. Where’d you get your license? … I was wondering if we might discuss the additional cost of gas which, as you know, is … that’s how I would drive if I had a death wish, too … climbing. Anyway, I’m happy to discuss by phone or at a … thanks for sharing your music with us. That’s what we all want to hear when we’re at a traffic light, your music. Isn’t that how we got some dictators to surrender, by playing that kind of music outside their presidential estates? … meeting. OK, so give me a call when you have a chance.”

While he said that was a slight exaggeration, he realized something was amiss when someone wrote back, “OK, next time I’ll use my blinker.”

Words mean everything. Words mean nothing.

What’s going on in the world of words? Well, for one, we’ve become hypersensitized to words. Or, wait, maybe we’re desensitized.

We fling words across the aisle at our enemies, becoming both a victim and a perpetrator. We are more sensitive than the other guy until he seems absurd, and then we claim that his hypersensitivity is triggering our insensitivity.

And therein lies the tricks of the trade. Shakespeare would have a field day with a world so preoccupied with gender. The Bard focused on gender identity and gender issues through many of his writings and musings.

Are we the gender we choose, or do others have too much to lose, if we allow people to use the restroom of their gender identity?

Now that it looks like it’ll be Trump versus Clinton, the epic battle will no doubt become a war of words, wills and wallets. Who has the most money, where did it come from — and how will these people who have millions and billions help those with big dreams but small bank accounts?

Bernie Sanders isn’t going gently into that good night, nor should he. He’s forced Clinton to focus on the unequal distribution of wealth and he seems to be having a jolly time through a primary season that has brought pain and suffering to so many Republicans.

Whither Jeb Bush? The poor establishment candidate had the money but not the votes, while Trump directed verbal daggers at everyone else in the field. Whether Cruz was a lyin’ guy or not, Trump stuck that label on him the way novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne attached the scarlet “A” (for adulteress) to Hester Prynne in “The Scarlet Letter.”

Now that he’s no longer in the race, will Cruz decide to play the lyre, or will he retire from the national scene?

You have to imagine Trump is preparing memorable one-liners for the woman who wants a shot at the White House. When you don’t have anything else to say this year, make sure you point an angry finger in the direction of your adversary for whom you have abundant animosity.

Will Hillary deflect the disparaging dialogue the Donald directs, or will she flutter and stutter like so many of Trump’s other adversaries who have become political roadkill? Will he focus on her face as he did with Carly Fiorina?

Leaving the political realm, how about those Yankees? I know the better bet is the Mets. The team from Queens is proving that last year was no aberration, and it has the pitching and the hitting to play deep into October. But I’m a Yankee fan through and through which means that, these days, I’m feeling blue. I suspect the cast of “Gilligan’s Island” might even feel sympathy for a team that’s discovered a myriad of methods to strand runners every game, with nary a chance to cross the plate and return home.

The Bronx Bombers are playing like Bronx Bummers. This team, with its expensive, aging veterans and its floundering youngsters, may finish below .500. Even in a world where one out of three isn’t bad for a hitter, one out of two wins is horrific for any team.

And then there are the movies, those sweet escapes from the political jungle and the athletic battlefield. But wait, the top-grossing movies of last weekend were “The Jungle Book” and the Civil War movie with Captain America, which means that even in our movie dreams we are escaping to familiar themes. Maybe we enjoy our imaginary characters going to battle, allowing us to turn our words into swords.

Some conversations need a decoder.

“I hate you,” in middle school often means, “Why don’t you pay more attention to me? I think you’re pretty awesome and I don’t know how to tell you that directly.”

Or, how about:

“What you did isn’t so great. I could have done that.”

Translation: “Damn, I wish I had thought of that. Where’d you get that idea?”

“Johnny is so much worse at this than I am.”

Translation: “Johnny may or may not be much worse than I am, but I can’t possibly be the worst one at wrapping holiday presents. Please, tell me that I’m not at the bottom of the barrel in this activity.”

Parents have their own way of communicating with each other and/or speaking about their children. Most of the things we say, either to our spouses, to their teachers or to other parents, are direct and straightforward. I’ve had some recent conversations in sporting matters where the subtext is so obvious that I thought I’d share my own decoder.

Me: “So, how do you think the team looks this year?”

Superdad: “Well, my son has spent much of the offseason preparing for this.”

Translation: “I poured thousands of dollars into training. He better do well and you all better notice it quickly, if you want to protect my son and the trainers from my wrath.”

Then there was a recent discussion about various volleyball skill sets among our daughters. I was speaking with the mother of a girl who is so much taller than my daughter that she’d have to bend down to eat peanuts off the top of my daughter’s head. This other girl plays the frontline almost exclusively.

Me: “So your daughter Clara looked great in the front today.”

Superdad: “Yeah, but she’s the best one on the team in the back line. She just never gets there, but she’s scary good back there, too.”

Translation: “I probably wasn’t that good at sports when I was younger and I want my daughter to define awesome on this team. In fact, this team would probably be better if we either cloned my daughter and had her play every position or if we took a few of your daughters off the floor for some of the game, until my daughter was able to give us a big enough lead.”

Bragging about our kids is inevitable, and probably helpful as a way to assure ourselves that there is a payoff for all the work of getting them to and from practices, rehearsals and other activities.

There are those parents who feign disappointment in their children.

Faker: “Oh, man, did you see that she only got two outs when she could have had a triple play? Now, that would have been something special.”

Translation: “She made the most incredible catch anyone has made this year and she would have had a triple play if your daughter hadn’t been studying the butterfly over in the bushes. Next time, maybe the team will be ready for that kind of play and your child can play a supporting role in my child’s greatness.”

And then there are the parents who work to limit any praise for their children, warding off the evil eye.

Me: “Wow, your son made a sensational running catch in the end zone. Congratulations.”

Superstitious parent: “Yeah, I guess it was OK, but the throw from the quarterback and the blocking by the other boys was even more impressive.”

Translation: “He’s OK, but don’t call too much attention to him.”

And then there are the put-it-in-perspective parents:

Me: “That was a tough game, no?”

PP: “I suppose, but they get to go home to a comfortable house with supportive parents.”

Translation: “Win or lose, life is good.”