WTF is dating in our twenties and Will we ever know Who we Are?
Ohhhhhh is this a loaded title.
It's 3:26 PM here, and our small but mighty team of writers are exploring concealers, bath products and the ecological implications of fragrance (it's depressing, but we're committed to finding you cool alternatives so fret not) while simultaneously wracking our brains on the subject of love.
We're not, mind you, musing over love as an abstract concept; the thing we can only imagine Sartre, Descartes, or Plath did (on paper), but rather more of an in-the-moment iteration. The kind of love that is woven into drunken hookups, friends with benefits, or the dates you go on while thinking about why you even chose to go on them at all, followed by, of course, the then plucked-from-obscurity feeling of rejection when they end up going nowhere. The kind of love that's more about the question of it all, the feeling we *~all~* have while laying on our beds at 3:57AM wondering what it's supposed to feel like, or if it's possible to acquire and maintain, like plants.
Today, already, I've fielded three questions on rejection, one phone call on the one that got away, and personally, tried to suppress the feeling of remorse about the prospect of hurting the one person I've ever really let in - putting love off on the acknowledgement that I'm simply not there yet, not ready...not mature, confident, stable enough.
So then, of course, this article floated to my attention. Not only did it encourage me to unpack my emotional suitcase of suppressed love-related qualms, but it did so while lovingly showing me all the other "iGen-ers" doing the same thing. Which is yes, insanely sad, but also, is it really? The only crazy thing is that none of us really know what's going on, what we're doing. But tell me this - did any other generation really know, either?