The FYD took a quick hiatus due to debauchery, outdoor music, and Jewish holidays. Have no fear: we are back, and ready to repent for our literary sins with an homage to my personal favorite time of year, Passover. Passover is a Jewish holiday celebrating the time Moses led the Jews out of slavery in Egypt. Technically, the real time to repent is Yom Kippur, but come back in September and we can have a little (or probably a big) chat about that.
Part of the Passover seder (which is a very loud service held around the dinner table before and after the meal) calls for the youngest child present to recite four questions aloud. Even though I’m the oldest child in my family, I always took the liberty of reciting the questions myself. Typical. This year, my youngest cousin mustered up the phonics to read the four questions flawlessly. These questions are meant to remind us why Jews perform differently–eat different foods, sit a different way–on Passover. My mushy cousin dragged his finger from word to word, reading syllable to syllable. It made me think: what are the four questions that I should be asking myself more often?
Well, the first one came to mind quickly: Why is it that on all other nights, my boyfriend texts me before I go to bed, but on this night, he did not?
A list amassed quickly. Let it be known that Passover also requires one to drink four glasses of wine. (I only had three-quarters of one. But still, the thoughts were flowing.) 4+ questions for the modern young woman:
Why is it that on all other nights, I can digest fro-yo, but on this night, my lactose intolerance from seventh grade kicks in?
Why is it that on all other nights, staying in sounds so much better than going out, but on the one night I want to go out, there is nothing going on?
Why is it that on all other nights, I am good at plucking my eyebrows, but on this night, I screwed them up entirely?
Why is it that on all other nights, I assume this crop top looks good on me, but on this night, I realize how huge it makes me look?
Why is it that on all other nights, my Instagrams get at least 50 likes, but on this night, I am struggling to surpass 34?
Why is it that on all other nights, I cannot online shop without spending $200, but on this night, I walked away from my laptop with the same bank account balance I started with?
Why is it that on all other nights, I go to yoga and then out to dinner without showering, but on this night, I got too sweaty and cannot?
Why is it that on all other nights, I get wear Lulu Lemon exercise leggings as a part of my outfit, but on this night, they are in the laundry?
Why is it that on all other nights, I order salmon, but on this night, they are out of the freaking salmon?
Why is it that on all other nights, I am only attracted to Jewish boys, but on this night, I think this goy is kinda cute?
And the last, in honor of Passover:
Why is it that on all other nights, we are supposed to eat leavened bread, but on this night when we can only eat unleavened bread, every girl on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook complains, although she never eats bread at all–leavened or unleavened–anyway? F that.
This year, my schedule only allots time for me to dedicate myself to a single television show. All winter long, I invested my mind, body, and soul int Girls, neglecting my previous romances with old flames like Grey’s Anatomy, New Girl, American Horror Story, and, um, four or five others. I’m not a quitter, so this divorce was especially shitty.
“What TV do you watch?” is a fairly standard getting-to-know-you question. As someone who likes to be on top of entertainment and culture 24/7, and as someone who has a soft spot for well-written dialogue, it was kind of embarrassing to cowardly admit, “Nothing.” Girls ended in March, and Lena Dunham left me a sad, lonely television spinster.
Well, ladies and gents, I had to remarry. I was ready to move on. And we all know that when you’re feeling down, the go-to goddess of the healing–both in South Africa and rural Mississippi–is Oprah Winfrey.
This time, however, Oprah came with a side dish of Lindsay Lohan. I braced myself for a viewing experience that could shatter my childhood recollections of sweet, sweet Annie and Hallie; I had mentally shut out all post-Mean Girls interpretations of LiLo. My memories of Lindsay ended after Cady Heron finally made things groovy in girl world.
But is it time for me to resume? Am I allowed to love Lindsay again? In her new docu-series, Lindsay is back on her feet with her fairy godmother, Oprah, and her caterer-vested, cig-smoking assistant (who needs five minutes in the morning and five minutes in the evening, and that’s all he ever asks), Matt.
I don’t waste my time on trashy television. I’m not saying that Grey’s Anatomy is the Steven Spielberg of network TV–though Spielberg’s daughter does have a hefty role as a blonde lesbian doctor on Heelys–but I am yet to indulge in the Real Housewives. I don’t even set foot near The Bachelor.
Therefore, Lindsay on OWN is good. Really, really good.
In the past few days, Lindsay admitted to an eensy weensy screw up, breaking her sobriety for a glass on wine. But everyone makes mistakes. I’m neither a sobriety nor an addiction connoisseur, but from what it looks like on Lindsay, the road to real recovery seems pretty attainable. Example: often, we see Lindsay complaining that she needs a regular workout routine in her schedule. It’s impressive for any human, regardless of criminal history, to demand working out. Very, very impressive.
The lesson to be learned from LiLo, J. Biebs, and–dare I say it?–Miley Cyrus (though I’m not ready to fully commit to putting Miley on that list of goonies) is that child stardom has a clear impact on what happens later in life. Something’s gotta change, and it’s gotta change soon. But what are we supposed to do? Strip current children of their right to see relatable characters in entertainment and media? Or do we let the industry produce and reproduce, creating Hallie and Annie, and then creating bleached-eyebrows Miley, or coke-thin Lindsay?
Or I guess the technical phrasing would now be “writing on someone’s timeline.” Call me old school, but vintage is chic.
There is something to be said about the act of writing on another timeline. I mean, let’s be real: we all have iPhones (or Droids, which I sometimes pretend do not exist). We all text. We also FaceTime, Facebook chat, and Gchat. Yesterday, my friend told me we should “have a Google Hangout later.” I was all, “Yeah, totally.” But honestly, I don’t have a clue what a hangout actually entails. In an existential crisis, I can’t keep track of digital communication. Apocalypse, commence.
Let’s not get too sidetracked, though. Writing on people’s walls. Timeline, I mean. Sometimes, it’s as scrutinized as posting multiple cleavage-emphasizing selfies in a single mupload. We see you squeezing those arms together, girl. You don’t fool nobody.
It seems as though the point of writing on a timeline is dinosaur-era. Is there any difference from a text? Assuming one didn’t lose her phone in PV last week, the message will come go from sender to receiver the same way: you write it, you post it/you send it, it gets to the other end instantly, and the person reads it when she checks Facebook/looks at her phone, which are essentially the same thing in 2014.
Texting is a private version of writing on someone’s timeline where you can talk about pooping and periods and binge eating in words that aren’t cryptic timeline material. So why would you really write on someone’s timeline? The answer to this question requires distinct definition. I compiled a list of times I find it socially acceptable to post on someone’s wall. It goes as follows:
1. When it’s someone’s birthday. Just because you want to wish someone a happy birthday doesn’t mean you’re friends with them, and it doesn’t mean you have their number. That being said, Facebook is the way. You can be nice, but not creepy. It’s an accessible way of communicating the birfday luvs.
2. When you’re sharing a link to another site. My news feed is littered like the streets of New York City with BuzzFeed articles. No one really likes litter, so I consider my feed annoying. However, I still click on every friggin’ link that comes up. Technically, one could privately message someone else with a link, but that takes the fun away from it. And by fun, I mean the fun that ensues when my mom comments on every link posted to my timeline.
3. When you want to tell your best friend you miss her. Because you guys are long distance, and you already text on a regular basis, and every once in a while, you’ve just gotta spice things up. you relationship with your best friend is more like your relationship with your boyfriend than you’d think.
4. When you’re trying to incorporate many people in a stimulating discussion which tends to more closely resemble shits and giggles about whatever happened last night, or last week, or #tbt to that one time at summer camp!!!!
5. When you’re trying to make some PDA happen. Everyone hates the couple that does it, but everyone envies the couple that does it. Write on my timeline so I know it’s real.
6. When you haven’t spoken to someone in a really long time but you’re good enough friends that you can write something cute on their wall and in a way that would be less awkward than texting them, like maybe post a photo or something like that on there too just to let them know you miss them. You know what I mean?
I conducted research for this post by stalking many people. And it turns out, every wall post was at all necessary fit into one or more of these guidelines. If you can think of another reason to add–which I cannot–let it out in the comments.
Image from WeHeartIt.