Dear Maine: Really?

I guess it's always surprising to see who ends up being the bigot among us, right? Today, many gays, gay allies and supporters of equal rights awoke to some bad news: Maine voted "yes" on Question 1. What does that mean? Homosexual couples are not permitted to wed.

Wasn't it just a few months ago that Maine was celebrated for allowing same-sex unions? And now, Maine voters have voted to repeal the law their governor signed off on this spring. Not only is it a slap in the face, it's also reminiscent of life on the the elementary school playground. The kid who always gets picked on is suddenly accepted by the popular kids to play dodgeball, only to find out he's about to be pelted with the ball by the people who he thought supported him. Right now, Maine is sticking out its tongue at its gay citizens and saying, "JUST KIDDING, WE DON'T LIKE YOU! NA NA NA NA!"

I'm not a New Englander, but I anticipate being one someday, and I'm more than a little disappointed that such backwardness is coming from a region celebrated for its breadth of education and enlightenment. I can't even blame the government for making the poll question ambiguous and hard to understand. It was pretty simple: "Do you want to reject the new law that lets same-sex couples marry and allows individuals and religious groups to refuse to perform these marriages?" It doesn't get much more straightforward than that, Mainers. And yet 57 percent of Maine voters thought it was okay to take away a basic human right. Can I vote against your marriage, there, sir? Ma'am?

it's always the ones you least expect, isn't it?

A friend of mine from south of the Mason-Dixon took this opportunity to ask Northerners to stop bashing the South and "maybe let gay people get married, thanks." Aren't we supposed to be setting an example? Aren't places like the Northeast (and California) supposed to be the places where progess begins, not ends?

Eventually, we'll all be treated as equals. I have every faith in this. I just hope it happens in our lifetime, and sooner, rather than later.

Here's hoping @je_suis_le_chef is right when he says, "give it a year for it to change and then 20 years for people to forget that gay marriage was ever an issue."

Young? Jewish? Share Your Story!

I'm in the process of working on a book about modern Jewish youth culture in America and I need your help!

I'm seeking submissions of interesting stories from young Jews (aged 15-30) who have something to say about their personal experiences with any of the following topics (or another topic that isn't listed):

• Emerging from Interfaith Homes

• Birthright Israel

• Making Aliyah

• Hillel, AEPi, AEPhi

• JDate

• Hip Jewish Media

• New Jewish Music

• Jewish Counterculture

• Exodus from Denominational Identification

• Young Rabbinate

• Reclaiming Ritual Observance

• Hebrew, Yiddish Usage

This isn't your Bubbe's Judaism! You know it, now tell me why. Email jewishyouthstories@gmail.com for more information or to share your story, and get the conversation going on the Kibbitz Network at kibbitznetwork.ning.com.

First deadline for submission: Sunday, November 15, 2009.

Need more time? There will be plenty more opportunities to submit in the future. Get in early to help me get the ball rolling!

Note: Not all submissions are guaranteed inclusion, but all are appreciated. Submit stories in first person, 200-1000 words. If you want to share your story but don't feel comfortable writing it yourself, we can arrange a phone or email interview. Spread the word to your friends and family--this is going to be big!

Accepted File Types: .doc, .docx, .rtf, .txt

"Casey"

The Age of the ISBN

Well, we already know that my mom wrote a book. (Quit Telling Me What to Do! was released in May 2009 by the Advantage Media Group.)

But now, I'm super-pleased to say that I have two friends whose books will be published in the spring of 2010. They're already up on Amazon (and I've already pre-ordered).

Never Tell Our Business to Strangers: a Memoir, by Jennifer Mascia, is expected by Villard on March 2, 2010

Save the Assistants: a Book for the Beleaguered, by Lilit Marcus, is due out from Hyperion on April 13, 2010. The book is just the next step for Save the Assistants, which already hosts a blog for the beleaguered. As Lilit's intern, I'm happy to report that she is a fantastic boss - no beleaguerment here!

In October, I'm heading back to the lovely Charleston, South Carolina to attend Advantage Media's Annual Author Marketing Summit (with mother in tow) for what I'm sure will be another wonderful experience with Alison, George, and the rest of the Advantage family. All this book business has really got me thinking - could I be the next one with an ISBN? I've got the idea, the outline, and a couple of connections in the industry, so keep your eyes peeled. It may not be long before I add "author" to my résumé.

For now, however, reporter, writer, journalist, editor and occasional poet will have to do.

Quirky Art Jewelry For the Win

This pendant from the MoMA store is absolutely fabulous. A unique piece of art like this is always worth the bigger price tag.

Thanks to @meganbe for the heads up! (Add it to her wish list, too!)

These too.

See, these are even more reasonable than the last ones.

Dear Stuart Weitzman: I adore you. The end.

I need a place to wear these...

...and someone to buy them for me. Size 7. Thanks. :)

"I can think of no human being who has a better time than an eager and energetic young reporter."

"Be kind to everyone you meet, for they may be facing a harder battle." I try so hard to always remember this, and to abide by carpe diem because we all know life is too short. But no matter how hard you try, there will always come a time when you wish you had tried harder. Today is one of those days.

We had our ups and downs, certainly, especially when it came to me sticking to deadlines. I started off in my position as assistant news editor mildly terrified of you, because you seemed to have it all together. But I was happy that, by the end of the year, we were able to gossip about boys and spend time laughing in the Observer office. You embodied the spirit of the "eager and energetic young reporter" and everyone knew never to stand between you and your story. You got down into the investigative topics no one else wanted to sift through, and your talent was made evident by the name you made for yourself at Fordham. Hell, your work on the religion beat even got you a top spot among Ivy League writers for the Chandler Award for Student Writer of the Year in Religion. Mostly, I envied your ability to dedicate everything to The Observer, even if it meant giving up on other opportunities. Nobody had any doubt that you were the best for the position of news editor for the second year in a row because of your unwavering dedication. You truly WERE the news section of the Observer. I can't think of news without thinking of you. And more than that, I think we all knew you would kick serious ass as an investigative reporter for some major news outlet, and it wouldn't take you long to get there. I always envisioned our future as some kind of competition, even after college, of who gets published in the New York Times first or who's certain to become a household name before the other. You probably would have won.

Now, I guess, we'll never really know. I was so shaken when I heard the news today, because you were so young and talented and had such a bright future. Sure, that's what they all say, but it couldn't have been more true for you. I only wish I had told you these things while I still had the chance. Because sure, we had our share of minor squabbles, of rolled eyes and raised voices, but I became a better news writer by writing for you, and I truly respected your drive as a journalist. And maybe those little pockets of tension were just clouds of envy, because you had something I don't.

All I can say for sure is you shouldn't have been making headlines like this. You should have been writing them yourself.

If heaven has a newspaper, I'm sure you'll be editor-in-chief in no time. Say hi to Walter Cronkite for me, and more than anything, please rest in peace. The Observer will never be the same without you. We'll miss you, Casey.



Fordham Observer: The Observer Mourns the Loss of Its News Editor
Fordham Notes Memorial Blog

Regrets

I have always believed that there is no sense in living life with regrets. It may be a cliché to say that everything happens for a reason, but it's true. The reasons may not always be good and they may not be something that we can easily understand, but there are reasons no less. I'll discuss this idea more in an upcoming post on "bashert."

Given my philosophy, I'm hard-pressed to come up with anything that I regret. Sure, I wish I was better at sending birthday cards on time or keeping my desk organized on a regular basis, but that's not the kind of thing one regrets. It's just the kind of annoying quirk everyone has that he or she would like to work on. Or not.

Still, though, something sticks with me. I've come to terms with the fact that I'm athletically challenged, a perpetual procrastinator, and definitely the worst car-parker on the planet. I've even settled my internal turmoil about never keeping up with Girl Scouts, because let's be honest, I just wanted to collect the badges anyway. What I haven't gotten over, however, is that I never got better at singing.

Every little girl wants to be a dancer or actress or singer at some point in her life. Most of them get over it. I gave up dancing practically before I picked it up. I gave up choir after freshman year in high school and theater after sophomore year. I'm a writer; I've always been a writer. I'm more than okay with that--I'm thrilled to have the opportunity to do something I love and be respected for doing it. But there's still that little part of me that's stuck on my 7th grade mentality and wants to sing on a big stage in front of thousands of people.

Maybe part of me wants to be a little bit like Susan Boyle--to prove everybody wrong. Perhaps it's because of all those people who told the sobbing, fourteen-year-old version of myself that Michael Jordan never made his high school basketball team, so there was still hope for me to be a great singer.

But now I'm 20. I've never had professional voice lessons, I only made it into select choir in my last year of middle school because I cried too much, and if you could hear me singing in my car driving down the highway, you'd know there really is no hope for me to ever become a great singer.

So that's my one regret for my twenty years of life so far: that I never found a way to have the kind of singing voice that would make people wonder if I could be a pop star. Even though I would never want to be a pop star, I can't help still wishing I had the chance to knock somebody off his feet with a powerhouse solo on a big stage. If ever they come up with a magical cure for a terrible singing voice, be sure I'm the first person you call, so I can check that solo off my list of things to do before I die.

Shoes Unfit for a Saturday

The cuts on my feet are healing
becoming pinkish
greenish scabs.
This, after walking miles
in shoes unfit for a Saturday
in Prospect Park.

It was a day of bandaids
and sunburn
and recycling Friday’s dinner dress.

Springtime days can sometimes perplex
with their summer sun and their winter winds
and I was unprepared.

But I’ve scrubbed the trail dust from the soles of my shoes
and out of the cleavage of my toes.
I’ve swept the mess of curly brown hair off my reddened shoulders
and away from my open eyes.

And after a bath of aloe vera
my tan lines are fading into
a healthy
summer glow.

I may have scars on my arches
and blisters on my toes
but the cuts on my feet are healing.

(c) 2009 will blog for shoes. please don't repost without permission.

Fathers and Their Daughters

I'm in sunny Charleston, South Carolina for the weekend and I can see the flecks of southern charm seeping into my psyche. I saw something this morning that was totally heartwarming. For me, at least. 

I don't know if it was southern hospitality or just plain good parenting, but I was in a cute jewelry boutique when a father walked in with his three young daughters. They were probably between 8 and 12. He was SO good with them. He waited patiently for the [super well-behaved] girls to try on jewelry, quizzed them on the songs that came on the radio, and said, "you're welcome, baby girl," so sweetly when thanked for his gifts.

This is probably more sentimental rambling than anything else, but it was so refreshing to see a father so good with his three daughters. Good parenting seems to happen so infrequently these days (as evidenced by the five screaming 3rd grade boys who darted up and down the hall of my hotel all night last night) and I'm glad to see that there's still a few good ones around.

The True Meaning of Holidays

It's about to be an interesting time to be a Catholic-raised Jewess. Or at least for me, specifically. As tends to happen every now and then, Passover and Easter are falling at the same time.

Passover begins on Wednesday night, and I, of course, would like to attend a seder. Passover seems like one of the handful of holidays you simply can't get away with celebrating alone. Depriving yourself of your favorite kinds of carbs (and don't forget that pesky kitniyot) doesn't seem nearly as worth it when you can't kick off the celebration with family, friends, and an over-the-top seder with all the necessary four glasses of wine. However, being the daughter of a lapsed convert--an only child to a single parent, might I add--there is simply no one to have a seder with. My family isn't Jewish. I didn't grow up Jewish, so I don't have friends at home whose families could invite my orphaned mother and me to join them. And my mother's friends seem to be spread all across the country in places where it would be entirely inconvenient to join them.

So, as it stands right now, we may likely be spending Passover alone. I won't even try to fake my own seder-for-two at our kitchen table. I'm all for tradition, of course, but I would even take my buddy's family seder--a family that calls themselves "Jew-ish"--complete with pasta, bread, and any other prohibited Italian foods within reach, over no celebration at all. This lack of seder scheduling doesn't seem to phase my mother, a lapsed Jew of sorts, but as someone exploring her faith, I'm saddened to be missing out.

On the other hand, I grew up celebrating all the Christian holidays. We host Christmas Eve every year and my mom gets mad if she doesn't get at least a card from me for Easter. And now that Easter is on Sunday, there's an expectation that we will be celebrating. We won't. Or at least not in any conventional sense of the word.

So I said my family isn't Jewish. They also aren't terribly functional. When your immediate family is made up of two people, plus my godfather--who is family but likes to leave before holiday meals in order to beat traffic--it's difficult to justify holiday feasts. My mother's only sibling has no relationship with her whatsoever, and after my grandmother passed away, we were left with no real blood relatives to share such occasions with. Though we've been lucky to share Thanksgiving and Christmas Day with loving friends every year, there's still something inherently awkward about waiting around to be asked to join.

So I've gotten to thinking. What is so special about holidays anyway? Of course, I understand the religious and cultural significance of the holidays themselves, but why have we selected what is in some cases an arbitrary date (as some argue about Christmas, but I won't even begin that debate) to get together and celebrate it? Why do we all have to clear our schedules for Sunday because that is the day that has been decided for us as the time when we will gather together and celebrate? Personally, I'm much more fond of the way we celebrate birthdays--sometimes on the day, sometimes on the nearest weekend, and others whenever it's most convenient for all parties. I understand why it's impossible to treat religious and national holidays in the same way, but for those of us who may be forced to twiddle our thumbs on the day when everyone else is feasting, try something new! Throw an Easter part two for friends and family you can't see on the actual day and celebrate the togetherness, not the calendar day. Because after all, holidays were never supposed to be about an exact moment in time, they're supposed to be about the experiences you have.

I always knew I was a trendsetter...

...though I guess you can't be a trendsetter if you've only ever thought internally about said trend, and never outwardly embraced it.

Still, though, I'm very proud to announce that Tiffany has released a new collection of Tiffany Keys--key-shaped pendants in various sizes and styles. I can't tell you how long I've been searching for a key pendant that I liked. Not the big obnoxious Juicy Couture ones, nor the ones that never really looked like keys in the first place, and I never did find an actual antique key that struck my fancy.

Though I can't say I have $1500 to drop on this particular key, the Crown Key Pendant, I am pleased at Tiffany's trend-setting ways, because we all know every jeweler will now come up with their own "Tiffany-inspired" style.

Perhaps the other jewelers' Web sites won't be so inherently irritating to navigate, too. For a girl who loves to window shop, even if it means clicking through photos on-line, the Tiffany Web site design makes me so infuriated that I generally refuse to return. Your loss, my friends.

"Confessions of a Recessionista Bride"

This came up in my Twitter feed the other day as a request to follow and I have to say, I'm totally entertained.

A newly-engaged woman has come up with a brilliant idea to raise funds for her wedding. She's requesting donations. She's got a blog, a Twitter, and a link to PayPal ready to go. No updates so far on how much she's collected, but I have to say I admire her creativity. My mom took a second job to pay for her wedding, and I'm thinking maybe if I start a fund before I can find a date, it can get the ball rolling so I'll be married before I'm 40. All of this is actually blatantly untrue, I've had two lovely dates this week. But the fund might still be a good idea. Especially since I'll be wearing shoes that cost as much as my dress. And I also anticipate them being bright red. But now I'm getting off-topic.

Anyway, I've got my own "Mama wants a new pair of Stuarts" fund that I've got to attend to, so I don't anticipate donating, but check it out! And if nothing else, donate a dollar for the sake of her creativity and courage!

But, really, though?

I have a ridiculous Google News alert for papal matters related to the Jewish people for my thesis that, you know, I intend to write in 2011. Nevertheless, I like to stay abreast of Catholic/Jewish relations, so I keep my eyes peeled for interesting news stories. Somehow, this popped up the other day, and it really makes me wonder why our time (or, in this case, the Vatican's time) isn't being better spent...

"Pope Urges Priests to Wear Smarter Outfits"

Really? Apparently the Pope, when not causing stampedes that kill young girls or controversy over condoms, has been urging Catholic clergy to better identify themselves and stand out from lay folk as much as humanly possible. How dare you wear trousers when you could be wearing ankle-length cassocks that, in fact, look like dresses. The Pope seems outraged that only thirty percent of clergy wears said robe-dresses.

Look, I'm not trying to mock the Catholic Church here. Every religious tradition has its quirks. I just can't understand how, with issues of poverty, disease, war, inter-religious tensions, and other rather important problems plaguing the world, the Pope has the time to be concerned with the attire of clergy. I know you like your bright red shoes, buddy, and I like me some red shoes myself, but let the clergy focus on helping people. Don't turn the Catholic Church into an episode of What Not to Wear.

Choo Takes Wellington

I was just flipping through my April issue of Vogue and I have to say, I'm pretty excited that Jimmy Choo is taking on the Wellington rain boot. I'm perfectly content with my Burberry rain kicks, but it's exciting to see another marriage of high style and sensible practicality.

Except... What gives, Vogue? These were announced in the second week of January! And given that they don't come out until mid-June, I'm not so sure featuring them just for April showers was the best idea. Just saying...

Hope Renewed.

I just came back to school after a week off for Spring Break. I spent my break at the Jersey Shore, where I got to see a few friends briefly before coming down with bronchitis and a fever of 102. All in all, though, it was nice to relax for the week and be away from the usual grind.

On Thursday, I came into the city for a meeting. It's super easy from the shore--I just hopped on a New Jersey Transit bus. On my trip back that afternoon, I sat in the very back seat where I figured I would be able to take up two seats without bothering anybody. A gentleman sat down in the seat directly ahead of me and turned to face me through the crack of the seat. "Would you mind if I put my seat back?" he asked. He asked! I said, "absolutely, go for it!" and spent the rest of my ninety minute trip in disbelief. I've taken my fair share of busses back and forth from New York, not to mention airplanes, and never once has anybody asked before cranking their seat in my face.

Personally, I almost never put my seat back. It makes so little difference to my comfort and impedes so much on the subsequent discomfort of the person behind me that I never quite understood the purpose of the reclining seat in the first place. Still, I've come to accept that very few people share my desire to keep others comfortable and have been reduced to muttering the occasional "asshole" under my breath as seats have come down on my face while I tried to situate myself.

But hearing a regular guy, in a suit and probably commuting from work, turn to ask a sweatshirt-clad college student if she minds if he puts his seat back tells me that maybe there really is hope for the future of common decency. It takes so little effort to simply ask the question instead of assuming you're entitled to being the most comfortable s.o.b. on the bus. So thank you, sir, for restoring my faith in humanity.

Fear of Grief

Why are we so terrified of death? I'm not even talking about the act of dying, but rather the topic of mortality. There are so many things in our culture that are natural parts of life that we like to pretend don't exist, force ourselves to hide, or skirt in conversation. From things as simple as the idea that girls don't sweat to things as profound as illness and death, why are there such huge chunks of natural human life that we avoid at all costs? What is so uncomfortable about grieving and death?

Today, I bumped into an acquaintance who said he'd just gotten back from being home. I knew he'd been home because there had been a death in his family, though I wasn't sure that he knew I was aware. He and I have had plenty of conversations about goals, how to survive college, making good decisions, and other things of at least some consequence, yet all I could do when I saw him was to offer an over-the-top kind smile and pat him on the back as he exited the elevator.

What are we so scared of? Our culture today seems to have no problem talking about everything we don't need to know, from who is sexually involved with whom to disgusting details of drunken nights and ensuing hangovers. Girls follow the lead of Sex and the City and have no problem kissing and telling, and people are even surprisingly open about deeply personal issues like suicidal ideations, abortions, family struggles, financial difficulties, and substance abuse problems. But we can't talk about death. We don't know how to talk to somebody who's just lost someone.

I think back to a year and a half ago when my grandmother (z''l) passed away. We were extremely close, given that we didn't live nearby and were only able to see each other a handful of times each year. I was devastated when she passed away, but when people found out and said, "I'm so sorry," the only thing I could think to say was my generic response to all apologies: "It's okay." Of course it's not okay. But then I would go on to say, "She was 92, she lived a long life," in some way trying to justify her death. Not because I felt it was necessary, but because I couldn't think of any other way to respond to those offering their condolences. "Thanks," didn't seem appropriate either, nor could I handle the emotional toll of bursting into tears each time it came up in conversation.

Which brings me to another point--quite similarly, tears are another thing we cannot naturally cope with. In fact, my default reaction to a person crying is to get irrationally angry, because I'm so paralyzed by the display of emotion that I can't muster any kind of reasonable response. It's not like I don't cry--we all do. But really, how does one console a person who weeps? The same way I attempted to show solidarity with my friend. An over-the-top kind smile and a pat on the back.

Yes, we as a culture have a lot of issues on our proverbial plates. We have to deal with war, poverty, the recession, natural disasters, disease, and a host of other problems. But, knowing that we can't all save the world, perhaps we can all start small and work on our reactions to those who grieve. There has to be a better way than merely placing an open palm on a shoulder blade. And maybe when we figure out what that is, we'll have already gotten that much closer to dissolving the other problems that plague our generation.

"I'm beginning to resent pen and paper."

After nearly forgetting just how much I enjoy reading a good book, I finally coaxed myself into finishing one. It took me almost 2 months of reading on the subway to and from Brooklyn and on the hodgepodge of flights I took to get back from San Diego, but I finally finished Broken Verses by Kamila Shamsie. I very much enjoyed it.

It wasn't my favorite book ever, but I most enjoyed Shamsie's use of language. Many parts of the book read like poetry, to the point where I finally had to take out a pen and start underlining the lines that sounded so beautiful. I would probably like to read it again some time, if I can ever get through my impossibly long reading list, because it strikes me as the sort of book you can get more out of each time you read it.

Though the characters were very well-illustrated and accessible, I had a hard time getting completely absorbed in the plot. I followed it and I was interested, but I didn't necessarily feel like I spent the time I wasn't reading aching to know what would happen next. I'm not sure if that's a product of reading in 10-20 page increments every few days over a two month span or that it's just not that kind of book, but it obviously didn't keep me from continuing to read, so it wasn't a deal-breaker. And honestly, probably for the best since commute time was the only real time I had to read.

Overall, I'd give it four stars. I'll have to add Shamsie's other books to my wish list!

A Taste of Belgium

I started my day today by leaping out of bed (at noon), thinking I had slept through my lunch date. Luckily, I hadn't, and I was able to make it down to Chelsea in just enough time to catch up with an old friend I hadn't seen for four years. She met me at the corner of 21st and 6th and we bustled into a wonderful Belgian restaurant on the corner called Markt.

I was totally impressed. The staff was incredibly friendly and formal, and they collected our coats at the door. It had a rustic kind of feel to it; even the napkins had character. It was a little noisy, but it definitely captured the authentic European bar feeling well. Or at least what I remember it to have been the last time I visited Belgium.

I was craving pasta after a week of Mexican food in sunny San Diego, and their penne with tomato, basil, and mozzarella was simple, classic, and quite good. The portions, too, were quintessentially European: enough food to fill you up and nothing more. I can't remember the last time I was able to actually finish a meal! And for good food and a funky, classic atmosphere, the price was definitely right as well. Check it out next time you find yourself in Chelsea--any time, really; they're open from 8 a.m. to midnight!

Saying goodbye...

Well, it's public now. So public, in fact, that it made one of the top stories in the JTA's daily briefing on Wednesday: "Jewcy's Funding Dries Up."

I wasn't ready to say goodbye so quickly. I never got to meet Michael's dog, Kingsley, or beat Craig at ping pong, and Faustine never got a chance to help me with my French. I'll miss Todd's intensity and the way Lilit never failed to find at least one hilarious photo, link, or story per day. I'll also miss Tara's comfortable stylishness and Hayley's daily soba runs, even though I never got a chance to figure out what the hype was all about. I'll even miss the way the office echoed when my heels clomped on the concrete floors or Tive assaulted his keyboard for indiscretions of its past.

Farewell, 45 Main Street, Suite 613 [like the mitzvot]. I'll miss you.

Relationship, Unraveled.

Relationship is defined by Oxford American Dictionary as "the way in which two or more concepts, objects, or people are connected, or the state of being connected." Relationship as defined by Americans by and large, however, generally refers to an intimate relationship between significant others, romantic and/or physical in some capacity. Which makes it really difficult to have a conversation about "the way in which two or more people are connected," given that people automatically assume you're talking about romance. Which, I might add, is the very last of the listed definitions: "an emotional and sexual association between two people."

Everybody has a "relationship" with everybody else that they've ever encountered. I even have a fickle relationship with the door to any room that houses an Observer meeting, since we always seem to find rooms with doorknobs that won't turn. It's a relationship between me, a person (or so I should hope), and an object.

But that, of course, is not my point. My point is why try to define a relationship? We are all in relationships with one another, in some capacity. I realize we live in the era of Facebook where it's become very important to publicize that a person is "in a relationship with [insert link to profile here.]" I even remember the days of MySpace where finding this information required actually visiting a person's profile, since it didn't come up in your news feed. And there's nothing like the epic middle school breakups, where one party was only made aware by seeing an "in a relationship" status turn to "single."

I'm not trying to promote any kind of non-traditional lifestyle choices. All I'm saying is that there's no reason to force something into a narrow definition when it's not ready to be there. Two people who are romantically involved in some capacity have a relationship of some sort from the moment they meet. They are in a relationship when the situation is, in some way, mutually beneficial and two-sided. But to wake up one morning and decide that you must assign some kind of societal rules to your interactions with another person, for the sake of being able to call it something, is utterly silly. So much so, in fact, that I felt it entirely appropriate to use a word as ridiculous as silly.

There is so much in life that's already complicated, difficult, and generally upsetting. There's no reason to make excess trouble out of something that's supposed to add positive qualities to your life. I can't say I ever thought I'd be the one to dissuade another from over-thinking things, but there's a first time for everything: enjoy the present and appreciate what you do have, because otherwise the future will come and you may have nothing left, the fault of over-analysis and pigeonholing.