1. You can’t make someone fall in love with you.

I was head-over-heels in like with the same blonde-haired, blue-eyed vision all throughout middle school. He dominated my every waking thought and was the absolute star of the Backstreet Boy diary I kept underneath my bed. Unfortunately for me, he was always on-again off-again with my arch-enemy, this totally bitchy girl who used to slip hate-notes into my locker and throw my stuff away in the dumpster. I was forever trying to find new ways to drag my prince away from this Juicy-sweatpant-wearing, evil step queen; unfortunately, though, it was all for naught. Fortunately, however, ten years later, I’m in a wonderfully adult relationship with a guy who I didn’t even have to bribe with spaghetti straps and Fun Dip in order to fall in love with me. He did it all on his own. Sometimes being grown up really is all it’s cracked up to be.

2. You might not be as hot and/or stylish as you think.

When I was 12-years-old, I genuinely thought I was a good-looking, fashionable contribution to society. I now look back on this sentiment with horror and self-disdain. What made me think I was God’s gift to my tiny private school??? I mean, I had poorly-straightened, mud-colored hair, a huge stye on my eye for like a year and a half, and constant visible aftermath of the 19-ish oral surgeries I underwent as a preteen. I wore glittery T-shirts that made brash statements like “Don’t hate me cuz I’m beautiful, hate me cuz your boyfriend thinks so” and platform mary janes that legitimately made me look like a clown. Anyway, this is all to say that I’m deeply and truly concerned about being in my 30’s and hating my current 22-year-old self. What am I doing now that is, unbeknownst to me, totally unforgiveable? What is my modern-day equivalent of fluorescent-colored butterfly clips and “99% angel” keychains???? The fear keeps me up at night.

3. You’re not as sneaky as you think you are.

Somewhere between the time my 7th grade science teacher caught me creating gel-pen body art during class and the time my mom caught me discussing the merits of The Eminem Show on the phone past my bedtime, it became painfully clear to me that I am not a sly person. I’m much better at being blatant than I am at being subtle, which is why I now tend to do things like eat with my hands like a bear and drop it low in inappropriate places. We can’t all be blessed with poise and grace.

4. Physical activity will always suck.

As a doe-eyed 12-year-old, I may not have yet understood the horrors of disease, abuse, and death; I did, however, fully relate to the terrible fate that was pulling on a pair of locker-room-smelling gym shorts and being forced out to the P.E. field like cattle. My phys-ed teachers totally hated me, and frankly, I don’t blame them — I played with my hair during capture the flag, shamelessly got myself tagged out within the first 30 seconds of dodgeball, and walked a 22-minute-mile while my peers were running a seven-minute one. Ten years later, I go to the gym out of my own free will, and while I don’t hate it, I’m not gonna sit here and tell you that I love it. I feel very little for the gym; on the scale of things I’m passionate about, I would put it right above lasagna and right below Coldplay.

5. Girls will, unfortunately, be girls.

I won’t even go into all the girl sh-t that went down during my formative years; it pains me to remember it and if you’re looking for petty content, you can just turn on Bravo. I’ll simply say this: girls are the worst. They just are. I don’t care if that’s not a feminist thing to say, and I definitely don’t care if it’s a stereotype. I learned in middle school that when it comes to girls, you gotta find the good ones, stick to them like they are the air you breathe, protect them like they’re your first-born children, and never, ever let them believe they’re fat. Case closed.

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Most people I know are transplants from somewhere else. It doesn’t matter what brought us to the city. College. A job. Somebody we loved. A dream. A hope. Boredom, restlessness. The fact that whatever we were searching for wasn’t in the place we left. Whatever the reason, we’re not there anymore, and we’re here now. Often, we’re here alone. Often, only a phone number with a familiar area code connects us with our childhood homes. We create new homes of roommates and friends, though it’s safe to argue that you often can’t entirely replace one with the other. You can grow new roots, but that doesn’t change the fact that you began from somewhere else, and replanted here. And everyone always wants to know where somewhere else was.

I’m often posed the question of how frequently I “go back home.” I don’t go often. People ask if I miss it, if it’s hard for me, if I feel homesick, if I wish I could go home. I feel like a bad person when I say I don’t. Should I?

At first, when I moved to New York from Los Angeles — propelled by a numbing combination of school, a dream, the desire to be an Adult On Her Own, and the simple logistics of moving as far away from my family as I could possibly manage — I was homesick all of the time. I didn’t anticipate it, although I should have. Every time I’d traveled without my parents for an extended amount of time, I’d wanted desperately to go back home before the trip was over. I knew home, and home was comforting. The city was scary and new and as a newly eighteen year old kid, I’d never had to budget my money or cook for myself, and now I was suddenly an adult. It seemed childish to curl up and cry for mommy, since I had suddenly been presented with all of the freedom in the world, but that was just what I wanted to do.

Over time, the feeling diminished. I realized I could survive on my own, as most people can. I established a life for myself, I found a job, I liked my freedom. I did not go home very often because I could not afford to. I couldn’t afford a plane ticket, and even if I could, I couldn’t afford taking time off of work. When I finally did go home, because my parents graciously paid for my trip, I realized my life simply wasn’t back there anymore.

The next summer, I stayed in the city. I did not go home. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been back in Los Angeles in the five years I’ve lived in New York City. Two Christmases, my siblings’ high school graduation. I don’t know when I’ll be back to visit my family again. It doesn’t really bother me.

Every so often, a friend will mention to me that they’re headed back home, because that is what people do when they’ve got breaks from school or simply did not move far enough away to validate long absences. But didn’t you just go home last weekend, I’ll wonder. Maybe their priorities are different than mine are. Maybe they never wanted to fly far from the nest. Maybe I’m emotionally stunted somehow. Maybe I should want to go home. Maybe I ought to go home. Sometimes, my overactive imagination gets the better of me and I think, maybe they’ll die and I’ll never have gotten the chance to say good bye. Maybe I should make more of an effort to see them.

Maybe I should care more about whether or not I see my family this year. It doesn’t matter to me either way.

Are we supposed to always want to go home periodically? For the holidays, for a break, to catch up with our family. Phones and Skype and Facebook serve that purpose well, and though science has proven that technology takes a lot of the personal aspect out of human interaction, it sure makes it easier to keep up with somebody’s life even though they’re on the other side of the country. What if we simply don’t want to go home?

Do birds go back to the nests in which they’re born? Not after building their own nests, I imagine. But they survive on a different code than we do, and we had to build planes to help us fly. They are built for it. Before planes, it was a much more difficult task to move away. Eventually, it also becomes a difficult task to want to go back home, because what waits for you there? An escape from the life you now live? This — here — is the present. Who knows where the future might be? Who knows what an individual person’s priorities are, and who’s to say whether they’re right or wrong? It is not a sign of defeat to want to revisit home, to be a child again, to be cared for by parents and friends if you’re so lucky to still have them. Nor is it a mark of insensitivity or ungratefulness if you can’t, or don’t want to go home.

Maybe you’ve rebuilt a nest already, and you’re already home.

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On the eve of my 25^th birthday, I made a new Spotify playlist called I’m only good at being young. Yes, it’s a riff off of John Mayer’s “Stop this Train,” and say what you will about the guy, he did popularize the phrase “quarter-life crisis,” which describes poignantly and succinctly what is happening to most of us — employed or funemployed; engaged or single or benefiting from a friendship physically but not emotionally; educated and in debt; high on boozy brunch and H&M sales and each other’s young blood.

We’re all young and naïve still… trying to find the in-between. I think of the stats. Only half of recession-era college grads have full-time jobs. We’re not saving for retirement but we want plans with guaranteed income options — we’re invincible as long as we’re alive. I take stock of my own stats. Lucky enough to have a job, but unlucky enough to have graduated in 2009, and thus finding myself behind the income curve. Entering into what feels like it could turn into my first “adult relationship,” whatever that means. Since coming to New York, I’ve entangled my limbs and feelings with others with whom I was certain there would never be a future. Because I was somehow lonely in one of the most densely populated cities in America, or because the heat in their apartments worked better than mine.

Which is why this new thing — these new hands in mine, these new words in my ear — is thrilling, in both the “exciting” and “terrifying” senses of the word. I want desperately not to mess it up. To believe him when he says, “Just because I don’t text you every minute doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you.” I want to believe him because that’s what I want to say, too, with the added clarification that I’m trying to navigate these tacit, fantastical rules of technology that now govern what should be our most organic relationships.

Speaking of, he took down his OKCupid profile after our first date; I took mine down after our third. But is that really the sign of, well, anything? I feel like I’m living inside a SomeEcard: “Babe, you make me want to deactivate my online dating profile.” It’s silly, but it’s our generation’s version of sweetness. It’s Splenda.

You say we’re too young, but maybe you’re too old to remember. He and I were talking the other night about how there’s an older generation responsible for validating other people’s love, in a legal sense, how sad it is that he and I, after knowing each other a month and a half, could hop a redeye to Vegas and get hitched tomorrow if we were so inclined, or drunk, but how couples who have been committed to one another for decades are at the whim of other people’s religion-washed politics and ignorant fears.

This is the part of being young I’m so good at, the part I never want to lose: the part that puts me on the winning side of history, pushing down hard on the end of some moral arc that MLK, Jr. said would always bend towards justice. The part that doesn’t care what kind of porn you’re into or birth control you use or video games you play, as long as no one actually gets hurt.

That part, and the part with long, shiny hair that boys want to run their fingers through, and strong legs that can walk all over the boroughs of this city taking on a tan but not too much fatigue, and the sharp eyes that can read small print for bosses and parents and other people whom I’m terrified won’t be there one day.

While our blood’s still young, it’s so young it runs. It’s funny, though. I spent so much of my life being old for my age. I’ve referred to myself as an adult runaway before — I’ve worked hard to get as far away from the place where I grew up as possible, ditched jobs that didn’t make me happy, have always been a little too impatient to assume the world.  When I talk about work I say things like, “it will be so different when I’m in charge,” and I spend my days can’t-hardly-waiting for that day to come.

Younger now than we were before. But as the candles on my birthday cake have ticked higher and burned brighter, so has the understanding that life is very long. I have the rest of my life to live the rest of my life. To think about “I love yous” and “I dos” and bridesmaids and honeymoons and mortgages and births and baby names and preschools and curfews and SATs and college admissions and first jobs that are not my own and my parents’ retirement and someday my own and starting a nonprofit and leaving some kind of legacy or something of artistic merit that proves I didn’t do all this living just for me. To think about what it means for there to be things — important things — that would come to a screeching halt the day that my life does. But not today, and not tonight. Tonight, we are young.

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Commencement is our Reaping.

We dress up in our Sunday finest (or equivalent for us pagans) and feed into the administration’s plans for our presentation. Loud speakers boom with ominous voices as we line up for our entrance. Our procession is predetermined and practiced, robotic as Reaping Day yet infused with forced eagerness. Our parents look on and understand all too well what we are about to experience, and they sit with mixed excitement and dread. Either way, our beds are ready just in case we come home.

The speeches are the same.

The Chancellor’s words and commencement addresses all basically conclude with “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

We are fed as if preparing for the Games.

If you are a recent graduate, you are probably still reveling in the immense amount of 5-star food provided you these past few days. No longer are the days of hunting for our meals (in the treacherous dining halls); instead, briefly, we are spoiled with the classiest food before we plunge into a world of constant Ramen noodles.

The real world is our arena.

It might look like the average world of the Districts, but once you enter into the work place, it’s a dog-eat-dog (or trackerjacker-sting-trackerjacker) world where you will constantly compete to stay on top. We dress ourselves in the most fitting-of-Cinna professional attire and plop into the arena with our own weapons: resumes and portfolios. The cornucopia might hold that tenure track or sought-after promotion but it’ll be booby-trapped along the way by conniving enemies and unforeseen obstacles alike.

The Careers still exist.

There are inevitably two kinds of graduates. Some approach the process with intense excitement, arrogantly confident in their ability to conquer their future careers and thrive with continued success. These individuals tend to be our future consultants and investment bankers, bred by the Economics department to unapologetically climb to the top.

Meanwhile, you have a massive population of hesitant other tributes, anxiously awaiting the unknown of the future. These are your idealists (like myself), sworn to non-profit work no matter how close that puts us near the poverty line. We all like to think that we will be the future Katniss or Peeta of the world, attractive, idealistic, athletic and capable of making a difference. But some of us will fall like dear Rue and capitulate to the demands of the real world.

There is always someone to defy the system.

Our graduating rebels are those who fist pump across the stage (a frat move fitting of Gale), moon-walking with diploma in hand (Rue’s light on her feet, right?) or wearing something absolutely absurd. Regardless, our Peetas and Katnisses provide the necessary relief from this otherwise daunting process.

In the end, we all must face the reality of Games and no matter the challenge, we’ll go out with pride and determination.

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The other night, as my roommate wandered around our living room in her bra, I realized for the first time just how impeccably flat her stomach was.”Oh my god,” I exclaimed. “your stomach is rock hard. Why don’t you ever show it off?” She looked at me with a mixture of disgust and embarrassment before responding, “I’m 25 years old, Ryan. I’m too old to wear a crop top.”

At first I thought she was just being shy but then I started to think that she might actually have a point. After spending most of our lives being able to dress however we pleased, we’re now entering a time when we actually have to start considering whether or not an outfit is age-appropriate. When you’re in your mid-20s though, this can be a surprisingly difficult thing to do. After all, what’s deemed age-appropriate for a 25-year-old? I’m not sure anyone has the answer to that. We just know what kind of clothing no longer feels natural for us to wear. In college, plaid shirts, sweatpants and cheap cupcake party dresses ran rampant. They were the unspoken uniform of the late teens and early 20-something girl (think Lux Lisbon mixed in with a little bit of an Adderall comedown) but when we graduated and had to start going on job interviews, we looked at our wardrobe and realized that we were screwed. Nothing in our closets screamed, “REAL ADULT PERSON WHO COULD EXCEL AT A FULL-TIME JOB AND MAYBE EVEN START FLOSSING.” Instead, we had clothes that said, “I HAVEN’T BEEN TO THE DENTIST IN A YEAR AND THE MOST IMPORTANT THING I HAVE GOING ON IS FINALS WEEK WHICH, LUCKILY FOR ME, YOU CAN WEAR UGGS TO!”

For some people, this reality check was just the push they needed to start stocking up on some quality basics. A sharp blazer, a nice pair of pants that would make your mom proud, and a good pair of shoes are things that both men and women should have in their closets, especially if they’re out of college and recently living la vida 9-to-5. But for others, such as myself, the transition to making more mature sartorial decisions has been difficult. We don’t want to let go of the rompers, the sweatpants worn out in public, the occasional #dark gold lamé bodysuits we keep just in case we get invited to a theme party. Now I’m not suggesting that we burn everything in our closets that could be perceived as youthful and start running into the arms of mom jeans. I just think that, as we get older, we should embrace an aesthetic that’s more  business on top (button-down shirt with a jacket) and casual on the bottom (black jeans). It’s sort of like the fashion equivalent of the mullet. It lets people know that you’re not a kid, not yet an adult who flosses.

I blame a big part of our unwillingness to stop dressing like trendy toddlers on this whole twee resurgence that’s been happening lately. Everywhere I look, there are grown adults fawning over teen fashion (Elle Fanning, Tavi, Suri Cruise) and taking cues from Clueless and The Craft. 45-year-old women wear giant bows in their hair and talk about having slumber parties while men wear tennis shoes and band t-shirts, even though their face resembles the crypt keeper. I mean, I get it. We’ve always been a youth-obsessed culture but it’s getting to be a bit much. We have to finally stop being so scared of adulthood and understand that dressing with a certain level of sophistication is not a bad thing. At first, it might feel like you’re playing dress up but eventually it will settle into who you are. That’s the coolest part about letting your personal style mature. You really find yourself starting to enjoy it and then it becomes an accurate reflection of who you are which, in my roommate’s case, is a 25-year-old who’s allergic to crop tops despite having a flawless “Genie In A Bottle” stomach. The nerve!

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When Paul Simon suggested “50 Ways To Leave Your Lover” on his 1975 album Still Crazy After All These Years, he clearly wasn’t going through a healthy break up. Then again, how many of us ever do? That would have probably made for a way more boring song.

I’ve been a fan of Simon’s since my friend’s dad played “You Can Call Me Al” in the car on the way home from youth group when I was 12. As I got older and crushes got more complicated, “50 Ways To Leave Your Lover” edged its way into my “I want you, but you have a partner and that sucks so why don’t you ditch them and date me?” musical repertoire. (Alongside “Dontcha” by the Pussycat Dolls and “Pavlov’s Bell” by Aimee Mann.) But as maturity blossomed, I realized dear Paul’s suggestions for how to end a love affair were actually pretty immature. I mean, really? Just hop on the bus, Gus? That’s one way to avoid a painful, yet meaningful and necessary conversation. Sheesh.

So I wondered if I could, in Simon’s style, come up with 50 healthier and nicer ways to terminate a romantic relationship.

_____

1. Have an honest conversation, Nathan.
2. Tell her you want to be just friends, Ben.
3. Don’t make her think she has a chance, Lance.
4. Treat her like an adult, Rolf.
5. Make the break clean, Dean.
6. Don’t date her roommate, Tate.
7. Don’t play games with her heart, Bart.
8. Only to dump her again, Len.
9. Don’t do it while you’re in bed, Ned.
10. Don’t do it at the store, Cor.
11. Don’t do it at the mall, Paul.
12. Show her some respect, Beck.
13. Let her cry, Sy.
14. Don’t be a dick, Rick.
15. Accept her heartbreak, Jake.
16. Don’t send out a tweet, Pete.
17. Don’t Facebook his mom, Dawn.
18. Don’t date his friends, Jen.
19. Don’t fight with his ex, Lex.
20. Give you both time to heal, Neil.
21. Tell her you want to leave, Steve.
22. Pack up your stuff, Russ.
23. Don’t cheat, Marguerite.
24. Understand there will never be “good timing,” Simon.
25. Don’t send a drunk text, Dex.
26. Don’t do it via e-mail, Gail.
27. Sort out your own sh-t, Kit.
28. Don’t place any blame, Jane.
29. Say “It’s not you, it’s me,” Lee.
30. Give her some closure, Rover.
31. Try and stay calm, Ron.
32. Don’t raise your fists, Chris.
33. Don’t insult his body, Dottie.
34. Don’t insult her brain, Blaine.
35. Give him some space, Kase.
36. Don’t make it hurt, Kurt.
37. Give her some reasons, Steven.
38. Don’t make him beg, Peg.
39. Don’t make fun of his cryin’, Ryan.
40. Don’t bring up your affair, Claire.
41. Don’t get her a consolation gift, Cliff.
42. Don’t start accusing him, Jim.
43. Just tell the truth, Ruth.
44. Spare the detail, Dale.
45. Don’t backtrack, Jack.
46. Stay on good terms, Herm.
47. Don’t think about revenge, Ken.
48. Don’t put him through hell, Belle.
49. Share your honest, calm thoughts, Scott.
50. And for the love of sanity, do it face-to-face, Stace.

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1. At least once a month you watch clips of old school Nickelodeon and other childhood materials. Or you break out your old Disney VHS collection until you’ve built up enough feelings of nostalgia to move you to deep depression or tears.

2. Considering quitting your job to chase your dreams is a regular occurrence each night before bed and every morning before work.

3. At 20-something years old you’re just now smoking cigarettes, marijuana or experimenting with some other drug for the first time.

4. You give yourself miniature panic attacks when you sit and think about how rapidly your 30s are approaching (or disappearing), with your 40s looming shortly thereafter.

5. You’d much rather stay at home on a Saturday night and have a glass of wine or a brew while watching Netflix, but instead you go out to avoid feeling “old.”

6. You often take lengthy, thought provoking drives to “find yourself,” but end up crying as Coldplay (or some other alternative rock music) surges through your speakers.

7. You really want a new tattoo, hairdo and/or piercing for no real purpose, other than that it’s new.

8. Drinking adult beverages used to make you carefree and social; now it makes you sad and sulky.

9. You’re dreading your next birthday the same way you used to fear going to the dentist as a child. (Aww, remember when you were just a little tyke, petrified to go get a cleaning? That feels like ages ago now, doesn’t it?)

10. The sight of hugely popular celebrities that are 18 OR UNDER disgusts you. Nothing personal, you just envy how lucky they are to be so young, wealthy and successful.

11. You feel a sense of urgency to get settled down so you can have a house, wife/husband and baby.

12. You didn’t finish school but you speculate what life would be had you gotten a degree, OR you graduated college but finding a job is so difficult, you’re wondering if it was even worth it.

13. You’ve strongly considered ditching your current situation and traveling the world, Julia Roberts in Eat, Pray, Love style — but with the current state of the economy and a lack of funding, you held off.

14. At times you look around and feel like EVERYONE is doing better than you in every aspect of life.

15. Not only are things related to your current financial situation nerve-racking, they’re also rather perplexing.

SCORE ANALYSIS
0-5: Kudos to you for being so magnificent at life that you have little to no cares in the world. You must be highly successful or have an abundance of confidence. Whatever the case may be, it’s people like you that make the rest of us cringe at our current living situations. That’s not your fault though, we don’t hate the player — we hate the game.

6-10: So, you’re on the fence and undecided on whether you should keep calm and carry on or freak out like the rest of us. Look, if you can remain composed until you’ve found some way to muddle through this rough patch, I encourage you to do so. Take life’s lemons and do with them what you may but tread carefully — you’re not too far from hitting the panic button like us Quarter-Life Crisis-ers.

11-15: CRISIS ALERT! You’re officially in catastrophe prevention mode but that’s OK, there are others out there experiencing the exact same struggles. We can embrace this uphill battle and see the beauty in the breakdown. Let’s all just stop and take a few moment to drop all of life’s stresses right this very second. Take a deep breath and relax. Below are four methods we can try adapting to ease the growing pains that come with this tough stretch:

GUIDE TO THE QUARTER-LIFE CRISIS

Believe. Corny, I know — but 100% true! Invest and trust in yourself. If scarily large steps are necessary, then take a leap of faith into the unknown future and have enough confidence in yourself to either land on two feet or get back up after you fall and bust your ass.

Slow down. Deadlines and paying large amounts of attention to time are detrimental to one’s stability. Never feel rushed to make significant life changes. Hasty decisions don’t always pan out well and if you appreciate life for what it’s worth in this very moment, you’ll probably feel a whole lot better.

Do what’s best FOR YOU, not others. Whatever it is that you see other folks doing may seem alluring and enchanting but that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s right for you. Be comfortable making firm, independent decisions for yourself and spending time doing the things that you genuinely enjoy so that you‘re carving your own path instead of gliding through somebody else’s.

Whatever it is that you’re passionate about, DO IT: How many people aren’t chasing their dreams because they’re afraid that they’ll fail and end up right back where they began? Or perhaps they are misunderstood/discouraged by their closest friends and family. That can’t happen. You can’t allow that to stop you from doing what you love. Far too often people are working jobs that they hate, going to clubs that they loathe and living unsatisfied lives because that is what’s considered “realistic.” Throw “realistic” out of your vocabulary and dream the way you once did as a child. Like the Fresh Prince, Will Smith once said, “Being realistic is the most commonly traveled road to mediocrity.”

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There exist these heavy pauses in conversations, right after phrases like, “I’m going to grad school,” “I’m moving,” “I’ve decided I want to be with them,” or “I’m pursuing my dream career.” They’re the moment when the air gets thick and uncomfortable and you are overwhelmed with the pressure to follow it up with, “well, you know, I’ve really been getting things together lately and it looks like it’s going to be the best choice,” or some other meaningless saying that takes a bit of the edge off. It doesn’t really matter what you say, to be honest, it only has to soften the blow of your decision and reassure them that it is, in fact, what you really want.

And beyond proving to them that this is what you want to be doing, there is the further need to convince them that it’s a good idea. No matter how peripheral the person is in your life — the judgmental friend of a parent springs conveniently to mind — it’s almost as important to justify your choice as it is to make it in the first place. Regardless of the choice itself, or the kind of risk it involves, it’s hard not to feel like you’re making it for not just yourself, but for everyone around you. After all, should you fail, it will be out there for everyone to see with just a few clicks through social media — and we all know it. It’s not enough just to finally take that first step, you have to then write a dissertation on exactly why you did it and hand it out to everyone you’ve ever met.

As we’re expected to lay everything out perfectly for everyone’s benefit, we often develop reasons for what we’re doing that are far removed from our actual motivations. Let’s be honest, “I’m not sure I can make it as an artist, but I will hate myself forever if I don’t try,” doesn’t sound quite as good as “This MFA program is extremely high-ranked and networking there will be irreplaceable.” For everything we do, there is a perfectly acceptable way to go about telling people that makes it sound, if not a clear move for the better, at least well thought-out. But the truth is we often do things, go places, and love people for entirely wrong reasons. We do them because they make us feel alive and full, and we are happiest when we are pursuing it — even at the risk of losing security and familiarity. We will construct endless tapestries of lies and obfuscations just to justify what, to us, seems like the most obvious choice in the world.

But why? We know that, regardless of the neatly packaged reasons we come up with for doing what we do, there are going to be those people who look at us with disdain, envy, condescension, or any combination of the three. There are going to be those who resent or dislike our choices, and for whom no amount of explaining things is going to suffice. Maybe, in some way, we’re justifying as much for ourselves as we are for them. Just to hear the words come out of our mouths — these reasonable, orderly, well-planned words — makes us feel that the risk we’re taking is somehow less dangerous. If we can just convince enough people that what we’re doing is good for us, well, we may eventually convince ourselves.

It is important to remember that, ultimately, we don’t need to convince anyone. Once our minds are made up, they’re made up, and no amount of lying to oneself through other people is going to soften the blow. And for the rest of them, frankly, who cares? Sure, there is always the risk that you will fail and have to deal with the sting of their thinly-veiled “I told you so” looks, but that’s a perpetual rule of life — especially now with social media. All we owe anyone — if we even choose to indulge them — is a simple, honest explanation of what we’ve chosen to do. If “It’s what I want, it makes me happy,” is not enough to wipe the smirk off their face, you shouldn’t be telling them anyway. Frankly, some people are always going to be downing your choices, and it’s best not to feed the trolls.

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In his epic novel, Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy penned one of the most captivating opening lines in literature. It is often translated as, “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

Whether or not you agree with this statement, it is a fascinating thought to ponder. It is a line that begs readers to consider the institution of family with nuance and complexity. Of all human relationships, family is the one that is most complicated, yet so commonly simplified.

But family is not the greatest of human relationships. It has the potential to be. Arbitrarily letting familial influences in your life because they are “family” doesn’t make sense.

Last fall, I left my parent’s home on a random Monday morning around 6 a.m. In that hour, I identified that place as being an abusive situation. While my parents had their regular morning session of prayer and Bible reading, I packed up a suitcase and left for work, not knowing where I was sleeping that night. I don’t blame them for my leaving. It is, and will always be, their home. They can operate in it as they feel fit. I just knew personally that I wasn’t going to subject myself to sustained attempts at emotional abuse. So I left.

Since that time, I have had to explain my ambivalence to my parents. The consensus from those who discuss the issue with me, with few facts or knowledge of my family dynamics, conclude, “Robert, apologize.” It is almost reflex to people who hear my story.

Somehow, my immaturity, my pride, my stubbornness, are what has kept me from their table in the months since. My response usually involves my general aversion to breaking bread with people who call me a “pawn of Satan” because of the “demonic forces” in my life usually quiets down the forgiveness talking point.

Understanding relationships, of all varieties, demands more consideration than simple talking points. If life was like Sim City, it might be easy to leave an abusive boyfriend. If life was like Sim City, it might be easier to call an estranged parent on Father’s Day. But humans aren’t at their best when we follow programmed mottoes for a happy life. Evaluating others’ relationships based on these talking points is both irresponsible and, at times, cruel.

Commitment to family isn’t demonstrated by blindly opening your emotions, health, and time to individuals whose commitment to you was genetically determined. The beauty of family is when people make a choice to honor each other’s physical and emotional health.

Judging a person’s date-ability, their capacity for friendship, or their personality based on their relationship with their family is irresponsible. D

on’t whittle down the dynamics of family to archaic or idealistic notions of what all families are. Every relationship is at its best when participants make a choice to build it up. Love is not at its best when it is given, and expected to be reciprocated, by default. Family is no different. Therefore, respect people’s ability to decide what role family ought to have in their lives.

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For years, I begged the library to let me check out The Complete Fantastic Four. The hardcover volume totaled approximately 400,000 pages and contained every single story line that my Connect Four-board, pimply face could handle. My fingers, unable to regulate their moisture, would stain the panels. I didn’t care. I owned that anthology as much as I’ve ever owned anything throughout my life.

As the summer of 1999 dragged on, the heat pushed 13-year-old me indoors. At the request of my parents, I began volunteering at the public library. I was given a cart of books and asked to use a plastic potato peeler to remove all the old “date due” stickers. Needless to say, my hand-eye coordination didn’t lend to the necessary skillset required for such arduous work. Instead I would find a cool corner, preferably near a vent and out of view, and haphazardly scrape off stickers while thumbing through The Complete Fantastic Four, The Spider Man Anthology and X-Men: Volumes 1-10. I hated Doctor Doom and secretly pined after Mary Jane Watson. I thought Gambit was the best even though Nightcrawler’s teleportation was the power I longed to have. I wanted to be a superhero.

Years later, and with much clearer skin, I would purchase every X-Men: The Movie action figure. I had Mystique with the detachable Wolverine-mimic skin. I had Toad with spring-action jumping. I had Cyclops, even though all his action figure did was have a light-up face. I saw the first X-Men movie four times in theaters. I still watch it whenever it’s on television. When The Dark Knight was released, I painted my face like Heath Ledger’s Joker. The air-conditioning in the theater broke. Even as the makeup melted down into my eyes, I was swept away to Gotham City …and found myself sympathizing with a billionaire in a rubber suit talking in a comically-low gravelly growl.

In many ways, at almost 26 years old, I should be over superheroes. They were cool when I was scraping stickers off library books at 13, but what the hell? I have a job now. I have a blog now. I can fill out a polo shirt. I wear cutoffs and TOMS in the summertime. Yet there I was, at midnight, freaking out over The Avengers. I was laughing and clapping and cheering with all the fanboys. Before the movie, guys my age were comparing custom Avengers t-shirts. They were brandishing Thor hammers and Captain America shields. There was even a full-suit Iron Man in attendance. We are not kids anymore. In fact, no one in the theater appeared to be under the age of 20.

I was raised believing everything and everyone had intrinsic value. Even the villains (from the high-school bullies to the creeps on the news) had a place. Villains existed so that we could see good prevail. We could hopefully see a bully get beat up by a bigger, older kid. We saw bad men photographed in handcuffs, in mugshots, and plastered on the fronts of newspapers. When I was a kid, comic books taught me about a world that was pretty black and white. Heroes protected the general good, even though they were often complicated men and women. Villains, be they corrupted by power or external forces, sought to expose the worst in society. They needed to be stopped, which is why the good guys, no matter the odds, always seemed to win. What a naïve way of thinking.

The older I got, things changed. Good men failed in real life. I read stories of greed and corruption going unnoticed because the good guys perpetrated it. I saw bad guys and absolute villains get away with blatant crimes. The internet opened me up to a world of confusion, where things weren’t going the way they should be going. I understood motivation and circumstance, but I wanted something simpler. I wanted an escape and a regression. I wanted Doctor Doom to lose.

I don’t see too many teenagers at comic book movies. I certainly see a ton of 25-35 year old men at comic book movies. We walk a line that teenagers don’t. We know about the superhero complex. We came of age before computers slammed us with every angle on every story… minute-by-minute in real time. We had to pick and choose our content rather than have it force-fed to us. We picked the heroes we love because we saw ourselves in them. Batman is just a civilian in a suit with a vendetta, forced to confront extraordinarily deranged foes. Captain America is a soldier who takes order, respects authority, and stands up for good. Wolverine is a misunderstood outsider, fighting alongside a group of mutants who maybe don’t fully understand his internal struggle. There is humanity in each superhero story, even the most fantastic. We want to see ourselves in the panels, in the comics. We want them to fight battles that are too outrageous to totally understand — battles that make our daily struggles feel like nothing at all.

I’m drawn to superheroes, on page and on screen, not because I’m trying to out-nerd someone else, but because I love when the good guys win. For as humanized as actors and directors have become via the internet, I want to believe in gigantic characters they portray and the huge stories they bring to life. The superhero complex is why I keep going, often at midnight, to watch the latest galactic showdown or gritty origin story. Hero stories, for as complex as they get, are still about all of us. They’re about adversity, friendship, broken homes and misplaced destinies. They make our lives more manageable.

If Bruce Wayne becomes Batman to deal with the death of his family and avenge his city, suddenly my petty quarrels seem even less significant. Sometimes we need superheroes to remind us that we can’t give up on the world, on other people, or on ourselves.

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