Summer Solstice (Asexuality)

?????? Source: Google Images

Today is loooong. Summer solstice long. What is America going to do with all this daylight? There’s too much time for thinking today. (Read: disclaimer for the thoughts that follow.) There is time to weep and time to laugh, time to mourn and time to dance, time to be born and time to die, and time for asexuality.

That’s right. A-sex-ual-ity.

Recent conversations with friends have inspired this revelation that there are times when it serves one well to forget about the boy/girl mumbo jumbo. Really, every movie does not need to stifle its viewers with the idea that life is incomplete until the guy gets the girl. Maybe my choice of movies is to blame. Nevertheless, it gets tiresome. Ah, to be free of decoding texts, to dispel that knot of worry that ties itself up in your stomach as you await a call.

Is asexuality worth a try?

We’re obviously talking short term (don’t inundate me with your complaints of ‘needs’, I’m well aware). But speaking with the expertise of someone who has recently been on a family vacation where the pretense of asexuality is a must (What, mom? What are ‘pecs’? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where? No. ‘Abs’? I’m not interested), it can be pretty relaxing.

Sure, vacations are obvi relaxing on their own, but think about how nice it is to just turn off your phone and not worry about social networking. Some of you may have just had cardiac arrest at this idea, and if you did I hope we’re not friends. Don’t invite me to the funeral. I swear I won’t go.

Think about all the time we’d gain without these distractions. According to the Nielsen Company, users spent about eight billion hours a month on Facebook in 2010, and now Twitter is huge and everyone has a smartphone. Probably half of these hours are spent talking to a significant other or trying desperately to find one. That is a LOT of time, people. And summer solstice day, when everyone is going crazy indoors with the idea that they should be doing some outdoor activity because there’s extra light, must be even higher.

That’s an extra four billion hours a month to solve problems, volunteer, take your grandmother to lunch (she deserves it!), invent a portable bread cutter for restaurants (I, for one, am sick of my friends squishing the bread down when they cut their slice), or finish (start) that novel.

Selfishness is likely the root problem. Time spent looking for love is almost always for oneself. And while humans were not cut out for asexuality like the jellyfish, the amount of time invested in searching at bars, on Facebook, on the phone, even in line for lunch, is something to think about. To supplement this, consider that the relationships that are the most tiresome, that you fret over the most, that take up all your time are often the ones that are unhealthy or never get off the ground.

The search for love is not to be discounted, as love itself is one of the best things left in the world. And sometimes, okay, love is time spent on others. (Promise this is not the cynic ranting of a loser going through a dry patch…okay fine! I live with my grandma and I’m knitting a sweater as I write this.) But, insert cliché here →, everything in moderation.

Asexuality is an extreme, yes. Plus, if you adhere to that there’s no point to the rest of this column (whoops). On an unrelated note, this will be the last post.

Okay, not really. Obviously asexuality is not actually biologically possible for most of us. But think of our friends the jellyfish! They just swim and float and glide, all footloose (footless, really) and fancy free. And you can bet they have some MAJOR ideas going on somewhere in all that gelatinous mass.

Perhaps a watered-down version where we focus more on our family, friends and those in need rather than our own needs is worth a try. Also, not to be that annoying aunt, but love always comes when you least expect it. Think about it.

Sext-astrophe!

Sorry you have to see old man chest again. Source: Google Images

If anyone ever wonders why time was spent on this subject, it is because of the idiocy of American congressmen. “Weinergate” cracked wide open today, and as it turns out yet another American representative was LYING…about SEXTING. Please hold your startled gasps. (You’re all much too dramatic.)

Honestly, this topic doesn’t deserve a column. All it really deserves is a swift slap on the wrist by a ruler-wielding Catholic nun. But since it has become pertinent not only to the average bourgeois but to those who are representing us to other countries, I will deign to address it. (If this blog feels like a metaphorical trip to the principal’s office, that’s because it is.)

After multiple scandals have broken loose, from celebs (cough, Blake Lively) to congressmen, it seems fair to ask, does sexting have ANY positive impact on our lives?

Resisting the urge to scream and mustering up as much journalistic objectivity as possible, let’s begin with the texting of pictures (i.e., the déclassé way to sext). Speaking purely from a woman’s perspective (yes, that girl at the beach, the Starbucks cashier, your friend, your sister, your mom, not your grandma…she doesn’t understand), EW. Nobody wants to see that.

This isn’t some weird cooties issue (everyone’s been vaccinated by now, I presume). This is a U-G-L-Y issue. To quote Elaine from the—brief lapse in objectivity—best show of all time, Seinfeld, “…the female body is a...work of art. The male body is utilitarian; it's for gettin' around, like a jeep."

Men, if you don’t believe it, let’s look at some facts. Members of your tribe are being humiliated in both the public (^^^^^^^) and private sectors. 

Remember all that time you spent achieving the perfect MySpace-esque mirror photo, posing seductively, working Axe into your hair to achieve the messy look, oiling yourself up and doing 10 quick push-ups right before because you heard that was a good way to get definition fast? Well, true story, there are girls that have collections of these photos of yours on their smart phone and they sit around with their friends like gaggles of geese ridiculing and critiquing every little detail.

Let’s clear a few things up.

1.       Pictures in the mirror where your cell phone is visible have NEVER EVER been cool. Pretty sure people would prefer to think someone they like is NOT sitting around alone in a darkened room staring at themselves in the mirror with an angry-looking “sexy” straight face.

2.       Middle-aged congressman chest is NOT hot. Dear Internet, no more. Please?

Cool? Cool. For the record ladies, guys are almost certainly showing their friends your pictures because they actually WANT to see them. Keep that in mind (cough, Blake Lively). 

Sure, some girls will reply to these Adonis photos, but only for attention. They are most likely not admiring your, ahem, stature. (All this coughing and clearing my throat, I must be coming down with a cold! Darn post-nasal drip.) And yes, it is obvious that you’re only sending pictures out to get some in return. And perhaps you will, because sexting has become yet another mainstay of this sex-obsessed, throw-morality-to-the-wind culture.

As far as the written word goes, sext (cringe) at your own risk, preferably with someone who is NOT A STRANGER ON CRAIGSLIST (ahem, Chris Lee). At least it’s less easily traced back to you. Of course, you never know, as it seems even some of our very own intelligent congressmen have not yet mastered the intricate art of a Twitter DM. (I mean really.)

In all seriousness, the most important thing to remember is who the publicly humiliating sexting is hurting (besides my eyes). The last couple congressmen had spouses. Serena Blake Lively has Lily a mom who probably isn’t under home arrest for forgery (okay, enough GG). Is the brief payoff worth the risk of hurting loved ones? Weiner-schnitzel’s probably saying no right about now. (Hmm…maybe a hot dog for lunch?)

So girls of America, even though macramé is in this season, let’s resist the urge to photograph ourselves in it with nothing underneath (for you, B J). Congressmen of America, we respect your physical fitness efforts, but finish buttoning up that shirt.

Can we just end this discussion already? It’s stupid and would be inexcusable even in junior high. You can all sit in detention with Dominique Strauss-Kahn and think about what you did.

In Limbo

Source: Google Images

Limbo used to be a fun party game. Remember how those people would lower the bar, and you would bend your back to the point of breaking trying to complete the ridiculous task of shimmying under it while Chubby Checker sang?

Well, limbo is not fun in life. We’re talking a state of limbo, as in waiting to find out who will be laid off as your company loses business, anticipating a phone call from the doctor about your lab results, that awkward moment when you and your roommate realize you each have your eye on the last Oreo, or when you’re talking (we all know talking doesn’t just mean shooting the breeze by now, right? If that’s even a phrase) to a guy/girl that you just cannot figure out.

This limbo means they seem interested, but not too much so; they make comments, but they are vague; they address a time in the future when you will be hanging out (for the first time, again, etc..) but don’t set a date and time; and they usually do not let the conversation die. (Text, phone, Facebook, or Twitter conversation obvi…in person, you say? Do people even still do that? Also, don’t get the feeling from these jokes that I’m some sort of technology-obsessed Drew Barrymore from He’s Just Not That Into You. Yeah, I’ve referenced it twice. I’m aware.) 

So is this limbo worth the vague promise of success?

Maybe if Chubby C provided the soundtrack. Kidding! Really, though, can you imagine if “Limbo Rock” played every time you waited for someone to text you back? The world would be a frightening place. Let’s take a look at two COMPLETELY MADE-UP scenarios. (A winky face may have been appropriate here, but I am opposed to any and all emoticons. E-no-ticons, amirite??).  

1. Friendly Neighborhood Bartender (no, he does not work at Applebee’s, gross) and Bar Hound began an intermittent series of bar-style meet and greets about one year ago. (Oh, the euphemisms for hooking up I’ve used in this blog!)  Finally Bartender questions why they’ve never dated. Hound dog agrees, and in typical girl fashion, has him on the brain all next week. She decides to contact Bartender, but her casual texts are fielded; he’s vague and indirect.
2. A young Christopher Walken (don’t ask) and Wilhelmina (short for Will Ferrell, of course) dated for about three months. After a time, Walken admitted he liked cowbell. In fact, he needed it. (Okay, and Wilhelmina, he added begrudgingly.) Shortly thereafter, they stopped talking, mainly on his end. Wilhelmina, being a strong modern woman, rallied and banished him to the furthest reaches of hell (in her mind). But what’s this? Fresh-faced C-Walk (has that nickname NEVER been used before?) comes crawling back with a lukewarm apology and begins to text her again, fairly consistently, with vague undelivered promises of a rendezvous.

Let’s take a quick look at the limbo rules. As you keep “winning” (NOT this), the bar goes lower and lower. Sounds a lot like what’s happening when we continue to lower the bar for those we choose to date. It’s oddly similar to the children’s game, except now your mom can’t cheat for you and secretly hold the bar higher.

These scenarios? Let me give you a hint. They won’t end well. Bar Hound and Wilhelmina clearly have feelings for their respective suitors, but if they were returned, they would be returned. Texts would be answered promptly, and hangouts would be suggested and EVEN followed up on. I remember this campaign from the fifth grade, “Just Say No”. I’m pretty sure it was about this.

So take a hint from Zac Brown Band. They probably want to see you again, but they’re stuck in colder weather. As in, there will always be an excuse. Ladies, he’s a ramblin’ man, and he ain’t ever gonna change.