the seventh wheel

I should've guessed that writing a blog about being single in my twenties wouldn't make me much of a relationship expert --but rather an expert at being single, at going on bad/weird/okay dates, and collecting stories for the ages. It's a good thing I'm writer, at least the stories have somewhere to go.

Which is basically why I find myself back here. To the blog that started a little over five years ago, just as a relationship was ending; like an ominous sign that I was about to lose a part of my life and I needed to reconnect with my words to survive it.

There's been a lot of ups and downs and trips sideways since then. Not just in love, but in life. And somewhere along the way, I turned thirty. And writing a blog about dating and relationships and life in your thirties is a little different. I no longer have a rat-pack of guys feeding me their latest conquests stories. Almost all the rats are married. Or engaged. The girls that used inspire me with broken hearts and awful dates are now talking wedding arrangements, house decor and baby feedings. But I'm not ready to write about any of those things.

Because I'm still stuck in another phase. The one where you're supposed to be a grownup, supposed to have your life together, a real apartment (but you have a really cute studio!), a boyfriend who is marriage material, money on the side... and you don't.

So I'm here, writing. What else am I gonna do? My words, they keep me company. They keep me from driving myself insane. When I write them down, it stops them from growing fangs in my brain. When I put them out there, I know that someone might relate.

You joke about being the Bridget Jones amongst your friends. You laugh about being the seventh wheel every Friday night at dinner because everyone else comes in pairs and you just come with a new hairdo. You smile when the one-hundredth person asks you if you've "met someone yet" when you go home for the holidays.

Until one day, the joke doesn't make you laugh, it makes you cry. You feel a little lonely in your world and you're tired of hiding behind your feelings, because they'll think you're being a drama queen. Or a martyr. God forbid you should actually admit that you're lonely sometimes. That being single isn't easy.

But it's not all drama. The truth is, I'm just having a bad day. A lot of the times, I'm happy I'm still free. That anything can happen, that my life could turn upside down and that the possibilities are endless. That age, despite how much society defines it, is just a number and if people think I still look 23, well then I must be.

I'm going now, it's all very real

About a month and a half ago, I came back from New York City after having spent 5 weeks there, on pause. No work, no obligations, the city that never sleeps and a good friend was just what I needed to get my shit back together. I realise that I often lose my own path and find myself wondering again and again what I want to do, really. That trip made me realise many important things: first that I need to leave Beirut, at least for a while. Second that when I'm far away (i.e. 5,600 miles) I feel free from the family-related responsibilities that take up so much of my energy when I'm around. That my dream is still to write a book, and that I should just sit down and write it already. And that my life isn't going to change if I don't change it myself [basically, if I sit back and wait for change, well, it's never going to happen.]

So armed with all this new and wise information I've processed about my current situation, I decided to try my luck and move to New York. Note that I'm doing that with no real plan in sight, except for the hope to pitch some good stories and make some money working freelance, no money (well, that's a lie, a bit of money that could last me a month I guess) and no work permit (don't even get me started on that). Am I scared? I'm terrified. And absolutely excited about it.

Before I left New York at the end of November, I promised myself I was coming back. Even left a few sweaters at my friend's apartment (because they just wouldn't fit in my suitcase) and told everyone (and I mean everyone) that I was planning on moving back to New York in January. I told everyone so it would make it harder for me to back out on this decision. Because, as it happens, the more time I spend in this country, the more anxious I become about making the move.

Truth is, it's not that big of a risk. Worse comes to worst, I'll just pack it all up in a few months and fly my ass back here, at ground zero, where I suspect things will still be the same.

So two days ago, I received a payment which I had promised myself I would use to buy my ticket to New York. I didn't let myself spend a penny of it, I just immediately went online and picked a flight, return date back at the end of May. There we go. Paid. Done. I'm going now, it's all very real.

I should maybe have a farewell party, but I know I'll be back soon enough, we always do. Maybe I'll start a new blog when I get there, New York Rhapsodies or Rhapsodies in New York, don't know yet. The topic: Late 20s Lebanese writer decides to change her life and buys a ticket to New York with no plan and just enough savings to survive a month. She will crash on her gay best-friend's couch (for a little while, I promise!) and they will have lots of fun adventures to share with the world (I hope).

Writing this and posting it, just like telling everyone I was planning to move before I bought my ticket, also makes it more real for me. I'm doing it, even though I'm scared. I'm usually a planner, you see --my friends make fun of me because I need to make a list about everything and anything; it comforts me to know what's coming. Yet I also like adventure, and this is one I'm jumping at with both feet. Whatever happens, I hope I get good stories out of it. That's all that matters in the end.

why I haven't been able to write a word

I've been back from New York almost 3 weeks now. I'm currently not working which means I have lots and lots of free time, all to myself, with nothing to do but sit at my computer and write. Or so you would think.

I've sat down and opened Beirut Rhapsodies and tried to work on a new post --wrote something, read it, realized it was very "blah". Left it in the "drafts" folder and forgot about it.
I've tried to work on the story that I came up with when I was in New York, a really exciting project for a novel that I absolutely can't wait to get started on, yet I haven't been able to do anything about it since I've been here.

Every day I've woken up and told myself that today, I would get back to my active lifestyle and go to yoga. I check the schedule, pick the class I want to attend --and then don't end up going. I spent the last two weekends on my best-friends' blue couch, because it's my comfort zone: we each sit on a side, watch some ridiculously mind-numbing TV series and let the day go by.

When it rained last week (superstorm Alexa really wasn't that bad, was it?) I hid under my covers and listened to the honking cars outside, imagining the traffic and feeling delighted that I was completely avoiding it.

So what the hell is happening? Everything I'm describing is me at my most passive behavior. No inspiration to write when it's all I should be doing. But I recognize this feeling. It's me being in Beirut. I get sucked in this black hole of no motivation and no creativity, and the only thing I've actually been able to write about is just this: nothingness.

The truth is, I'm a dreamer. I don't like to feel insignificant, in my little life, driving my little car, running errands and taking way more instagram pictures than I should have time for. So I've been hiding.

But I want to come out now.

time to say goodbye

All good things come to an end. And this is just one of those things.

There are a lot of good things I've watched come to an end that I never wanted to see, but it's taught me to recognize when it's time to cut the cord.

You see, when I started this blog, I was unhappy. I was in a relationship that wasn't working, I couldn't remember any of the things I liked to do, I had no direction in which to pursue my career, I hadn't written in years and I didn't know what to do. And things evolved the way they should: A breakup, which taught me everything I needed to know about myself, my strengths, my expectations of a good relationship. Months of celibacy which helped me have fun again. Peaking my interest in different directions, like charity work, acting, film-making, writing for the screen. Traveling to the four corners of the world, visiting wonderful places from San Francisco to Thailand. Finding out who I am, what I am and how I want to live.

Last year like today, I met the boy who I've come to refer to as my Parisian... and as unexpected as my falling for him was, I have to say I am a really lucky gal. I'm won't overstretch on this, otherwise he'll get a big head, but in fewer words: it's been a full year now, and I am happier than ever. Because not only am I happy in love, I can now confidently say that I know what I want from my life.

So here I am, finally setting off to be what I've always wanted to be: a writer. I have decided to take a year off, move to Paris --because what better place to write than in the city that inspired the greatest writers in the world?

And so it is time to start a new chapter of my life. I am writing the closing lines to what has been an amazing experience and I am so excited to see what is ahead.  It is all thanks to the readers I've had following me through every post, hugging me on street (I swear, it's happened), telling me that what I write means so much to them, and giving me faith in my words. And now I'm ready to put those words on real pages.

So this isn't the last you'll hear from me, that's a promise.

so, I called in sick

I wanted to get started on my list of things to do to get over writer's block [see looking for my mojo]. Not really sure how these particular challenges are going to get the juices flowing, but I'm trying. It's not like I have anything else to write about.

So, I called in sick. Seemed like the easiest, most convenient one to start with. Mostly because I had barely slept all night and was dead tired anyway. I woke up at noon, took an hour to actually get ready to leave the house. Left the house deciding to do things I've been putting off for months. Drove to the optician to get new eye-glasses because I broke mine back in June and still haven't gotten a replacement. There was no parking space so I left.  Drove to the jewelry shop to shorten the ring my aunt gave me for Christmas in 2010. There was no parking space, so I left.  Drove to the Nail Salon, to the Stationer's shop, to the shop that's been bombarding me with SMSs because it's 70% off, but no parking. So I left. I drove back home, after an hour of aimless driving, ready to have lunch. But there was no place to park.


Basically, nothing happened that day. If anything, it got me even more depressed about the fact that nothing interesting is happening anymore and it's all boring routines, traffic jams and unproductive days. I went to bed angry. 


Then the next day, I was really sick. Woke up feeling nauseous and unable to move. Slept it off and woke up feeling much better three hours later. Meanwhile, I had called in sick, obviously. So I got on my feet and walked around, even though it was pouring rain. I hit the bank, did my nails, paid my credit card bill, paid my rent. Went to my studio, which is supposed to be my writing haven and which I haven't really used properly since I've been suffering from writer's block... But my roomy and I decided to do a huge cleanup, fixed it around, and when I finally sat down in front of my computer, something magical happened: I got an idea. 


Unfortunately, I can't share that idea with you yet, because then I might jinx it and I'll be right back where I started. But the point is, it kind of worked. 


Then, later last night, I was at a friend's, and I was talking about wanting to go somewhere for inspiration. Traveling, somewhere, anywhere, just to see something new. Different experiences always inspire. So he made me play a game: there was a map of the world on his wall, and a flechette [one of those small arrows you throw]. Anyway, after about ten failed attempts for the flechette to actually stick, and my friend patiently telling me exactly how to throw it, it finally landed on South Africa. I was in Cape Town and Johannesburg in June 2010, for the World Cup. It was the last trip my ex-boyfriend and I took together, a couple of months before we broke up. I had fallen in love with Cape Town. I remember thinking that I could just buy a cottage on the beach and stay there forever. It was so beautiful, so vibrant, so colorful. We stayed at the most amazing hotel I've ever been, the Cape Heritage, and we had an amazing time, with the world-cup fury and all. But something was off during that trip. Although we spent two weeks together, alone, and we had a lot of fun, something was going sour. I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but I see it clearly now. We weren't the same "us" anymore. And when the flechette landed on South Africa, I realized I had to let it go. Close my eyes and remember the sea-shore, and Table Mountain, and the unbelievable rush of watching a football game with tens of thousands of people. Remember the good memories, let go of what hurts. Because when I meet someone else, I can't be so scared of getting attached that I forget to enjoy it. I can keep the thrill of riding the helicopter, but let go of the fear. 


I threw the flechette again. It landed on Costa Rica. Might seem random but the crazy thing is my best-friend and I are planning to go to Costa Rica in April. It's the "greenest" country in the world. The goal is to go spend ten days in wildlife settings and going back to our sources. Forget our chi-chi make-up bags and heels at home, and dig our hands in the soil. Literarily. Remove all the layers we put on all year long: the brave hand-shake at a work meeting, the flirtatious smile on a night out, the mask we put on when we're feeling blue, the hello-how-are-yous we don't really care about. We want to stay away from the things we do because it's the right thing to do, or because we have to do it, or because that's what we're expected to do. In the end we don't know what is real and what isn't, what we really want and who we really are. So we want to go to a place where there is nothing but plants and trees and creatures we've never seen before. Where no one will judge the size of our hips or the things we say. Somewhere we don't speak the language, know no one and want nothing.


I threw it a third time. It landed right in the dead sea, between Jordan and Egypt. It struck me as odd at first, and then I remembered: the dead sea was where we went for our last vacation with my mother. We went to Aqaba in Jordan and on the last day, we went to the dead sea and had the funnest time floating around and putting mud all over our bodies because it's "good for the skin." During that vacation, I saw my mother dance, water-ski, laugh, run around and put mud all over everyone's face. She had such positive energy even though she was months away from dying. And I realized yesterday that this is the place I need to go to, in my mind, when I'm lost. The place that reminds me of her strength, her joie de vivre, and these amazing yet fleeting moments that get lost in the spectrum of time. When I remember the sand grabbing onto my feet and the water standing still, it grounds me. She grounds me. 


The Dead Sea in French is called la "Mer Morte." La Mere [Mother] Morte. 


So, I called in sick.  Went for a trip around the world. And brought some of my mojo back.

looking for my mojo

Last week I panicked when I realized I couldn't write. I could barely come up with one paragraph to tell you all that I can't write... And I thought of taking a long break, get my thoughts together, maybe get some real inspiration brewing... but then I realized that I might never come back from that lengthy break, so I'd rather try all sorts of stuff to get my mojo back...

So the first thing I did, of course, is google "writer's block." It's funny how the first thing we do in any situation now is go to google. And here's how Wikipedia defines it: Writer's block is a condition, primarily associated with writing as a profession, in which an author loses the ability to produce new work. The condition varies widely in intensity. It can be trivial, a temporary difficulty in dealing with the task at hand. At the other extreme, some "blocked" writers have been unable to work for years on end, and some have even abandoned their careers. So it's a condition. And here I thought it was just one of those things writers used as an excuse when they had nothing to write about!


So now that I know I have a condition I feel the need to treat it. I found all sorts of articles on how to overcome writer's block... And there were some very strange ideas, like "talk to a monkey or a stuffed animal." No comment.  Another was "take a shower, change clothes." Seriously. Like that's something you should do only if you're really desperate to write. And my ultimate favorite: "Find God." I don't know about you, but if I find God, I won't give a shit about writing anymore.


Anyway apparently there's a serious lack of good tips when it comes to getting yourself out of writer's block. My suspicion is it's because anyone who's ever attempted to write these tips were trying to overcome writer's block themselves, and just ended up by listing a bunch of crap. 


I've been trying to write a long time, so I've tried my fair share of crap before. Do not go isolate yourself for three days in Faraya when the weather is gloomy and your hotel room barely fits a bed. Ordering crappy room service while watching fuzzy TV and feeling lonely will not get you inspired. You'll just end up leaving by the end of day 2, even if it's dark outside and the fog is thick and you're afraid for your life while you drive back down. You'll just be out of three hundred bucks. 


Oh and do not buy five different books from Amazon.com that all promise to help you write the world's next best-selling novel. They take too long to arrive, you pay three times their worth on shipping and handling (what is "handling" anyway?) and when they actually get here and you take all five of them on your isolation retreat in Faraya, you're probably only gonna read the first three pages of each and decide that no one can tell you how to write, it's an inner talent that everyone works with differently. 


Here's what I'm willing to try to see if I can get my mojo back: I'm going to come up with a list of 8 things to do in the next month [February]. And we'll see what happens for each... if nothing else, there will be pictures to prove my efforts.

1. Shock a complete stranger. I don't know how yet
2. Be blond for a day... and a night
3. Call in sick, and see where the day goes
4. Rats night out: convince the Rats to leave their belles at home one night and give me some oh so needed Rattitude
5. Go on a road-trip: somewhere I've never been
6. Give someone something for V day even though I hate it and it's corny and whatever
7. Read the letters my grandparents wrote each other before they were married
8. Look for God, obviously 

So... wish me luck.

one year of rhapsodies

Last year like today I wrote my first blog post, venting out my frustrations over 21st century relationships and how hard they were becoming. This is how started my year of rhapsodies. Three weeks after the first post, my boyfriend told me he realized that he would probably be happier without me. How ironic for me who was trying to "solve" the enigma of serious relationships, not realizing that if my relationship was going sour it was probably time to breakup. I'm glad he noticed though. Because otherwise I wouldn't have had the wonderful amazing life changing year that I did have from that moment on. Yes I started by crying every tear in my body, analyzed and over-analyzed every second of the previous six months to understand what I did wrong, how I could've saved it, blaming myself for letting him take me for granted, for not loosing weight, for getting too comfortable, until I finally realized that it wasn't just me who didn't make him happy anymore, that I too had been miserable for months. And that realization saved me. So I stopped with the blame game and finally moved on to the next level which was to focus on myself and what I wanted, for me. Yes I had a pile a self-help books before that and the pile tripled over the course of the next few months, because that's what I do, I read books and they make me feel like I'm going to change my life. The good news is, it worked.

I started the blog, friends began to read and share it, debate it around drinks, Rats inspired me to wiesel them in, I was motivated to write again --something I hadn't done in years. Then there was the Breakup, the depression phase, the best-friend moving to Canada, the constant hammering of the Rats for their help on how to get over it, the hours on the phone with Classy who was going through the same thing, the going through about seven dozen used and confused boxes of tissues. Went to Yoga class, took Italian lessons, traveled to Istanbul with friends. Fell in love with a city full of life and history and beauty and rhythm, realized the world was a lot bigger than me and that the possibilities were endless, started smiling again, had the best massage on the face of the earth and it felt better than sex. Reconnected with my childhood friend Rebellious, whom I hadn't seen a lot in the last few years, enjoyed going out again, enjoyed drinking, enjoyed my friends' company more. Wrote a blog-post about my parents which got 900 views. Liked a guy, flirted, kissed him, felt good to be in the "beginning" phase again. Liked other guys, enjoyed being hit on, piled up stories that the Rats laughed about and fed my blog. Went skiing for the first time in four years. Organized a cooking competition that lasted all winter, came in last place but had lots of fun getting there. Made a new friend, a girl, which is very unlikely of me. Asked a friend if I could act in her new TV series [Beirut, I love you] just for the fun of it, spent a day on set, fell in love with everyone, wanted to come back, started helping with anything and everything, spent every weekend on set and many evenings brainstorming scripts, did the makeup, helped with anything I could, made some amazing new friends, felt like I was 19 again, drank beers on the street sitting on the hood of a car, kissed a guy who fell, got obsessed with the shoots, was passionate again. Realized my oldest dream had come true. Marked the ten-year anniversary of my mother's death. Saw my ex for the first time since we broke-up, realized that I wasn't angry anymore and that I didn't miss him even though it was awkward and weird but how could it not be. Turned 26 in Los Angeles, walked into the Kodak Theater where the Oscars take place, went to Vegas and then San Francisco with my best friend, ate the best brunch in the world --felt like I cheated on New York. Took part in the 48hr film project in Beirut and won Best Film, felt like we had just won Cannes, smiled from ear to ear jumped up and down was overly excited. Saw my ex kiss his new girlfriend felt like throwing up in my mouth a litte but then finally felt free. Had the most overwhelming kiss of my life. Read 17 books, took an acting class, jumped from a rock 3 meters high into the sea, went camping, saw the Cedars, got a tattoo, acted a main part in a short film, discovered "The Healing Code" (everyone should read it by the way), cried of laughter until my abs were killing me and I almost couldn't breathe and got the best compliment of my life from a gay friend of mine who said to me: "Women like you make me wish I was straight."

Nothing about this year was as expected. Three-hundred and sixty-five days ago, I lived in a safe routine that I didn't realize was killing every ounce of creativity and passion I had. When writing scripts, we always look for a "catalyst," something that pushes the protagonist forward. This blog was my catalyst. I thought it would help me write a book --and I still hope it will. But now I know that I needed this time to really discover myself, and this is what got the ball rolling. This year I felt alive.

So thanks. To everyone who played a part in this snowball effect of amazingly random events. And to all of you who have been reading Beirut Rhapsodies, inspiring and motivating me.

technology killed romance

I was looking through the boxes underneath my bed: old shoe boxes, about six or seven of them, filled with letters and pictures. Hundreds of handwritten letters from that time before the internet existed. You know, that time mobile phones were the new revolution and we all begged our parents to get us one and it was this large, chunky, heavy Nokia which we could have never imagined would become the technology hub it is today. There was no Google and no BBM. If you wanted to reach someone, you had to call them at home, not too early and not too late, otherwise their parents might get angry. And when the other person would pick up the phone, they wouldn't know it was you instantly because there was no such thing as caller ID and you just had to spend that awkward minute explaining who you are.

Now you can find someone you've met once in a random bar and whose last name you can't remember just by searching on Facebook and guessing by your "friends in common." In stead of going back to that bar every night for a week trying to see her again, or chasing down friends to figure out who the mystery girl is and magically end up by getting her phone number, or her address or something --you just poke her. Or you can send an "inbox" message: now that is what I would call romance in the 21st century.

I have all kinds of letters in those old boxes. And they are dusty and I can barely make out the handwriting, but every word I read makes me smile. There is something so precious about the time it took for each of these letters to be written. By hand. When was the last time you wrote anything by hand, except maybe a grocery list, or your signature on your credit card receipts. With a letter you could play with colors and spray perfume on it and pick a nice envelope. Now there's email. You write a few sentences with words that don't contain all their letters because we live in a world where if you can gain half a millisecond by typing "r" in stead of "are" then you do it. No one even addresses it to you anymore, there is no "dear" anything it's like your email to: is enough. The signature at the end is automatic so you don't bother with that either. You just get straight to the point. Forget the time where post-its could be spread around the house with little Xs and Os --my mom use to leave them on the bathroom mirror for my dad to see them when he woke up, and it was never just "don't forget to buy some toothpaste," there would be a whole seductive energy around it that would make him smile instead of seeing as a chore. Now you'd barely get an sms: toothpaste plz.

And there was a time where even an sms could be romantic, you know, when they first started. We used to "save" the special ones and read them over and over again. A guy would send you a text message that he spent an hour writing, putting in all his feelings because it's easier to write it than to say it. And there we would sit around with my friends and compare our romantic messages one after the other. Now there's BBM. It's like you're on a chat-room 24/7. Of course you've got the heart emoticon and the hug emoticon and the kiss emoticon but that just means that they are finding new ways for us to write less and less.

I guess what I'm trying to say is --technology killed romance. And if we don't try to revive it, we're gonna forget it even existed. So I'm just gonna throw this out there: write a letter to someone you love and make them feel that special excitement of receiving it, and opening it, and discovering the words line after line and then keeping it safe somewhere for years to come. Not in a folder with a blue label in their gmail inbox.

"listen to your mother"

"and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again."
Caliban, The Tempest, William Shakespeare


I stayed up all night to watch the Oscars live until almost 7 am. It's kind of a tradition that I've created for myself since I was thirteen years old --no matter what, every year, I watch the show live. It may seem futile to you --I could watch the replay at a decent hour the next day, and not be at work downing coffee after coffee on  Monday morning, having only slept two hours. But to me, watching the Oscars is more than finding out who won Best Picture. The truth is, when I first started my tradition, watching was all about the dream to be a part of it one day. I would sit and smile and visualize myself walking down that red carpet in a signee-something gown, embracing Tom Hanks and having a laugh with Nicole and Sandra, giggling at the joke some reporter made. I'd rehearse my acceptance speech in the shower, varying it a little from time to time, switching from funny to emotional or mixing up both. Eh. I wanted to be one of those people who dream big and actually make it.
A lot of girls dream about being an actress when they grow up. Maybe you dreamed of being a singer, a dancer, a football player; and maybe you're not surprised that it didn't happen.
Now I watch the Academy Awards, and it's a reminder of what I didn't do. I look at the young and upcoming stars on red-carpet, the Hailees and Jennifers who are nominated on their first time around, and I remember that I never even tried --that I gave up before giving myself the chance. I remember what I once was: ambitious, motivated, hungry.
And now I realize that I sound like I'm 80 years old and my life is behind me. But I'm not. I'm 25.
One of last night's winners, David Seidler, who won best original screenplay for The King's Speech, is 73 years old. In his speech he laughed it off and said his "father said he would be a late bloomer." So we never know... Maybe I'll surprise myself at age 70 and be up there after all.
But my favorite part of the show last night was something director Tom Hooper said when he won. He told the story of how his mother went to a stage version reading of The King's Speech, came back and told him she found his next film. "The moral of the story is: listen to your mother."
Yes, I'm a sucker for mother tributes and such. And this made me think that maybe every time I feel lost and dwell in the misery of my quarter life crisis, I should listen to my own mother. Problem is, she died three weeks before my 16th birthday. But a lot of the times, I forget that she left me a really important, and quite specific message. On that first birthday she missed, my father presented me with a gift, from her. He said she had them run around the city for weeks trying to find the one she had in mind: it was a beautiful silver quill and ink set. And her message to me was: never stop writing.

Remembering how to write, love and be happy

When I was younger I could write pages and pages without ever blinking. Without second-guessing myself, without turning on the auto-critic. I just did the writing. And the point here is to go back to those roots, or at least try to. I'm trying to write a novel. It's been in the works, cooking up its way through in that little head of mine. And this blog is supposed to help me get back in touch with my inner creativity, that little genius writer that once lived inside me and which I haven't heard from in ages.
This is supposed to start me off, let me write down my inspirations, and let them find their way back to me. Beirut Rhapsodies is a novel. It's the story about women in their twenties, struggling to find their balance between the love they want and the love they have. I am a twenties girl in Beirut, and I am struggling. All my four and a half girlfriends are struggling, and so are all of their friends. And I know it's the same on other continents, because I've been there, and I have friends there too.
Relationships in the 21st century are no longer what they used to be, and we need someone to redefine the term. Our parents' generation is the divorce generation. They're those who were twenty in the 70s, who created the whole concept of rebelling against the system, the peace and love era, the feminists, the hippies. Peace and love led to divorce in the masses, because what they didn't realize when they were fighting for all those [wonderful] things, is that they were forever changing the concepts that defined modern society: marriage and family. Because wives no longer have to keep up with their husband's crap just because standing by your man is the right thing to do --which means no one sticks around anymore. And both men and women expect more from each other than they used to. My grandmother didn't expect my grandfather to love her passionately for sixty years. She expected a father figure for her children, financial support, and company. And she hoped for friendship and respect. My grandfather didn't expect my grandma to look like a bombshell all the way through her fifties, but now, when women like Demi Moore looks the way she does in a bikini, the pressure is on. It was easier to keep the marriage contract --let's just call it what it is-- and it was easier to uphold both ends of the deal.