On The Social Media Prenup

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The other day, I was doing an outdated thing by listening to FM radio in the car. During this unlikely occurrence, I happened upon a morning talk show on a popular station. Even when FM was cool, I was never a fan of hearing any loud, narcissistic voice other than my own in the car to school. I also couldn’t fathom why, at the one time of day when the demographic that actually listens to pop music is in the car with the ability to listen to pop music, the DJs decide to say “screw that, you must listen to our chatter about sandwiches and pregnant people and stupid criminals instead.”

This time, I was pleasantly surprised at one DJ’s junction of three words I’ve never heard, but still sounded so, so right: social media prenup.

“Get this,” she said, “people are getting clauses in their prenups that specifically mention what is okay and what is not okay to post about each other on their social media accounts before jumping the broom.”

Of course, I whipped out my iPhone at the next red light to write this all down. Marriage? Love? Social media? It was like the ultimate combination of toppings on one low-fat fro-yo that I couldn’t help but rabidly consume.

After listening to the radio hosts argue back and forth about the prenup for the next five minutes, I also learned that if you break a rule of your prenup, your partner in sickness, health, and all things Facebook has the legal right to fine you.

If there is someone who understands that we are always dating two men at once (your boyfriend and your Facebook, which we discussed a while back), it is me. But I thought we were just dating them both at once. I didn’t realize we had to marry them both, too.

Not that I have to worry about it for a while, but I couldn’t help but immediately wonder if I would be one to submit to the trend. A few years down the road, would I? Or a better question: should I?

To answer my own questions, as one who asks as many questions as me usually must do, I had a long, hard talk with Google. My searches included: “social media prenup,” “should I get a social media prenup,” “celebrities social media prenup,” and “examples social media prenup.” Before I knew it, my relationship with the social media prenup had become almost as close as my relationship with my boyfriend and with Facebook. We’re tight as hell, obviously. Through all the rubble, though, I came across two articles that struck me. Okay, fine, I only read one of them all the way through. But the second one said enough before it even really began.

TIME‘s piece on the social media prenup is titled “People Are Getting Social Media Prenups.” All right, that’s self-explanatory. Its subtitle, however, steals the Baked By Melissa cupcake: “But if you need one, your relationship is already doomed.”

Keep that in mind while we consider the Huff Post piece, titled “OMG… What Did You Post?! Why Every Couple Today Needs a Social Media Prenup.” Hmm… this calls for a duel.

I tried to imagine what my social media prenup would entail. Don’t take screenshots of my drunk snapchats? Don’t post sex-related Cosmo articles on my wall? Don’t like other girls’ profile pictures?

Maybe this is a better question: Don’t you think this all seems really stupid?

I don’t know much about marriage, but I’d hope that if you’re tying the knot, your significant other should probably be able to figure out what you want on social media and what you don’t. And if they don’t know, then the two of you should be able to talk it out without fines. Let’s be real: wouldn’t you rather spend that money on a juicer?

So next time you hear Kanye exclaim, “WE WANT PRENUP! WE WANT PRENUP!” will you reply “Yeaaaah”?

Will you?

 

(Ed. note: this was my favorite music video on MTV Hits for a very long period of time.) 

Image via Goop. 

Flavor of the Week: Resting Bitch Face

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I’ve always been told by my lady friends that I’m rather intimidating. Half of me completely understands this, as I am self-admittedly outspoken to a point beyond benefit. But at the same time, I’m absurdly social. I don’t want to scare you away. I would, actually, love to talk to you. Even if I don’t like you, I probably want to talk to you. (And I probably do like you, by the way.)

In the midst of a fuzzy conversation a few weeks ago, one of my best friends threw in a word about “Resting Bitch Face,” a chronic syndrome that is undoubtedly age-old, but has only been properly labeled and defined in the last year or so. “Resting bitch face” is pretty self-explanatory: your natural, or resting, face has that slight tweak of bitchy contour. Liken it to the way your expressions find themselves when the girl next to you on the Amtrak is breathing too loudly. It’s the face you make when you really want to say something but you can’t. Or when you want to punch a girl talking to your boyfriend in the face. You know.

Those who suffer from Resting Bitch Face are different – their faces just naturally look this way, all of the time.

So when I tuned in to the RBF convo after a moderate space-out, I quickly interjected without hesitation: “I think I have resting bitch face.”

Less than a second passed before my friends gave an amen. “Yeah, yeah, you do.” The funny thing is that they weren’t mean about it – not at all. And they weren’t quite laughing either. Chuckling, perhaps. But they said it as if it was a simple fact. I might as well have said “I have a vagina” and it would have invoked the same choral response.

So with the rise of the term “RBF,” and the equivalent rise of girls who seemed to have it, I took responsibility for a problem that’s apparently been plaguing me for years.

I love watching people watch me when I walk in New York. When I see someone on the street giving me that look, I mentally check my eyebrows. Are they furrowed? Yes. Corners of the mouth?  In a straight line. The RBF is R-ing, hardcore.

Then, I take a chill pill (metaphorically). I try to smile, or smize – take your pick – enough so that I look like someone who actually enjoys life but isn’t walking down 7th Ave. tripping balls.

And you know what? People start to smile back. RBF will be around forever. But like any other chronic disease, there are PROACTIVE MEASURES YOU CAN TAKE!

On Moving

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For some reason, I thought it would be a lot like our annual trek to the easternmost point of the Hamptons. No, not just because of any physical resemblance, but because leaving home (old home) felt, in a way, like vacation. Don’t be fooled by my iMessage references to “Old House” and “New House” – yes, proper nouns – like estates on Nantucket. That’s just a coping mechanism, silly!

According to my mom, getting a reality check should be at the top of my personal to-do list at all times. Generally, I disagree. But in the case of picking up and heading east again – but not to the Hamptons, just east across town – I clearly need one. Badly.

I tried to liken my experience to movies. Ok, so Max Keeble’s Big Move. But there is no fat Josh Peck here to tickle my laugh trigger. And the only food fight I had was with a pack of Oreos. Indigestion today. The Oreos won.

Then, I took the Carrie Bradshaw via Sex and the City (the movie) route. But that didn’t really pan out, either. Her romantic story couldn’t stop me from emulating her ways by packing all but my prized pair of pointed-toe magenta pumps until the very last second. I took a photo of the lonely soles (ha ha, clever is I) that will probably not make it to Instagram, but made me feel pretty cool.

After two too many attempts at fantasy, I realized that moving is the kind of thing that you won’t really know or get until you live it yourself. It’s very stressful, very exhausting, and very nauseating. I’ve had a staggering seventeen glasses of water today (usually, I only enjoy drinking water in tea form), and that is an exact calculation. The nausea faded, and my pee is frighteningly clear.

At each transition point in my life, as I’ve graduated from things like Abercrombie slim fit to studded vintage mom jeans – or even with the passing of my grandmother, for example – everyone always reminds me that the important stuff is inside your head. And the good thing about that is if you so choose, you can keep it there forever. There’s an emphasis on the permanence of things we cannot see. Like, “it doesn’t matter because you’ll always have that memory,” or just the idea of an indescribable feeling.

No offense to whoever thought of that, but when you move, it’s a load of bullshit.

There is no worse feeling than the discomfort of out-of-placement. Once I made a box (or three) labeled “Books,” one labeled “Journals,” and a few other miscellaneous containers with makeup and clothing and school notebooks, everything still sitting around seemed very lost. It was confusing how certain objects didn’t have a place, but still an attachment – an importance and a necessity that I could not detach from.

If all of the important shit in life was inside of us, then moving wouldn’t be so difficult. When I go to the Hamptons with my family in the summer, or when Carrie Bradshaw walks through her whopping closet granted by Fairy Godfather Mr. Big, everything’s easy because in that moment, we only carry the internal stuff. But when you have to put it into boxes, the tough gets going and the going gets tough.

Oh yeah – and if you thought I was lying, take a look:

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