Is the opposite of a red flag just a green flag? Why don’t we have a fair opposite to “red flag?”
I don’t think we talk about green flags enough. Because reluctance is a big part of conversations about dating, right? “Yeah, she seems cool, I guess. We’ll see where things go.” I think most of the time we’re falling in love with folks who are merely Okay, like they’re hot enough for you to fear losing them but they’re just generally Acceptable, and a big part of Accepting them is the comfort that they feel similarly about you. Then the red flags are the worst bits of them, the parts that make you say “what if he’s Unacceptable though?” Then—for fair, healthy reasons—they’re overlooked in the hopes that they aren’t planted too deep.
But shouldn’t love be about enjoying another person and then seizing onto the qualities that push them above and beyond? When I think of the women I’ve caught feelings for, it’s because I really like them, but then they’re also blowing my mind and making me laugh with these incidental phrases and body language and thoughts. Raising green flags left and right. Sure, shit may be unrequited, but I don’t really get bothered given that I’m excited to feel anything that shoots past my amiability toward all folks.
And dashing out “simultane story respo” off-the-cuff: massive green flag. I admit there’s probably some context missing, that you don’t know her personality and, even if you do know mine, you’ve got no idea how they interplay. Too bad; this is the most erogenous DM I’ve ever received.
Maybe part of the reason that we all end up in loveless relationships glued by inertia is that
When we meet a random person whom we think is hott and their personality doesn’t immediately clash with ours, we spring at a new hope (with the added bonus of a hottness factor) only to see that hope peeled away as you realize, no, this person wasn’t the promise of my hope. But it’s too late, you live together. You have a baby. You divorce and do it again.
But when we think about the prospect of falling in love with an old friend, we consider everything we know about them– we know about their flaws, their fears, their neuroses. We think we can see 5 years down the road when their dream might eventually conflict with yours– you want to stay in Topeka near your parents while he needs to become a chef in Bangkok to feel fulfilled. But it’s just that, it’s a dream, and dreams are meant to be crushed by life.
Dreams are being crushed left and right so you might as well grab ahold of love in the hopes that your dreams and their dreams are no different.
(If this post makes no sense it’s because I started it over a month ago and it’s been sitting open in this tab since then and I’m tired of it. Bye, post. Be free.)
First of all, fuck you. It’s always been like, you know, an irritating thing that you’d attempted to co-opt the language of feminism and other civil rights struggles to cloak your sexist ideas in bullshit like “Men’s Rights” and calling this sexist garbage “activism.” And for a long time, I think a lot of people like me were down with ignoring this shit because it was juvenile and stupid, but also because it seemed like this tactic was clearly the same as racists whining about why there isn’t White History Month, or homophobes trying to have a Straight Pride Parade, something that anyone with half a brain could see is transparently a way to prop up the bigotry of people who already control the balance of power in this world.
But this Elliot Rodger mess brings up a way that this type of shit can affect people. Because, when you co-opt the rhetoric of revolution and struggle, it’s more than just “trolling” or some bullshit to make, you know, actual decent people angry. It’s language that can make a disturbed person think that defending bigotry is a legitimate struggle, that, in Rodger’s case, that owning and subjugating women is a cause worth killing and dying for. Because that’s what those words mean, you fucking garbage assholes, those words are for people who struggle from real oppression, to inspire people to sacrifice and never give up. The fact that straight white men have taken these words to rally around calcifying the bigotry that’s slipping from their fingers is truly disgusting, and now it’s more clear that it has fucking consequences.
Fuck you, you pieces of shit, fuck you.
Our ideas and words and actions can get people killed and, if my personal journey is any indication, it only takes baby-thought to trace the paths that lead there. It’s why I panic about every aspect of existence, but I really think it’s working out for me and, if not me, then the people around me.
How I feel about all the girls I love— they on another plane and that’s why I’m attracted to em.
Life partners need not be narrowly defined; they can be exes, children, best friends or lovers.
“This past summer I was very ill. At one point it looked as if I might not survive. But the people who were at my bedside every day at the hospital were many of my life partners: my mother, Jackson, Dan, my brother Chris and Clare.
Clare rarely left my side and called every doctor and connection she knew to help figure out what was wrong with me. It was Dan who brought our son to see me every day and kept him feeling safe in such a scary situation. It was Chris whose arms I fell into when I couldn’t get up. It was my mother who stroked my head for hours at a time. And it was Jackson who walked me through the halls with my IV and made me breathe.
Whomever I love, however I love them, whether they sleep in my bed or not, or whether I do homework with them or share a child with them, “love is love.” And I love our modern family.
Maybe, in the end, a modern family is just a more honest family.”
This whole piece is very reminiscent of one of my favorite personal essays, “Love Is Not A Pie” by Amy Bloom. Both capture how I would like to feel about the totality of my relationships; romantic, platonic, familial, otherwise. It’s one of those things that makes even people who care about and understand me well cock their head askance when I describe it.
Coming Out as a Modern Family
Damn straight you did, Ann. My bride will never be given one of my McChickens. I’ll tell you that right now, upfront.
The game has been changed.
Okay but when was “the game” (as in codified social rules for romantic relationships) ever NOT about money?