What do you call the people you love?
How do you define a relationship? Does that definition change when they’re not around?
What do you write on your love letters, or casual notes? Does it change based on their gender, or on yours? What happens if you’re not monogamous? How do you indicate that a person is a very close friend? How do you make distinctions between friends and lovers?
In short: what are your terms of endearment?
i. How do you define your relationship?
On my last run, I thought about all the names I call my special friends, both lovers and platonic. Words to indicate commitment and care, loyalty and intimacy, support and adoration. Words that I say to prove to someone that they are special, to let them know that I love them, and cherish them, no matter what.
THE ISSUE
I hate a lot of the standard terminology. I don’t like terms that are very possessive or gendered. I like words that imply intimacy and commitment.
Attempts:
- “Significant other” is too sterile.
- “Beloved” is cheesy and archaic.
- “Boyfriend” and “Girlfriend.” Gut reaction: I don’t like being called a “girlfriend,” or calling anyone my “boyfriend” or “girlfriend.” Bad associations. Veto'd.
- “Friend” isn’t strong linguistically enough. Too broad. “Good / Close / Dear friend” and other modifiers get it better. “Best friend” is very close to what I need for about five people.
- “Lover.” I should like the term lover, but it doesn’t imply (to me) that a person is special, or that there’s any aspect of commitment or prioritizing. To me, a lover offers a only sexual relationship, and I’m sappy enough to want more.
- “Limerent object” is too obscure and hopeless. Mutuality is not implied.
- “Apple of my eye” is too unreal, too idealizing.
- "Hook-up" or "fuck buddy" isn't classy.
THE BEST:
“Partner” is non-gendered, non-exclusive, personal, egalitarian, and loving. I like the ambiguity and the implied companionship. I like being a dance partner or a partner in crime or a business partner.
-
ii. What do you call your lover to their face (or their inbox)?
Well, besides their name. I like to give people nicknames, pet names, things that fit them better than their given titles. I want someone to know -- from just their name, and how I say it -- that they are impossibly special.
THE LIST OF ADORABLE NICKNAMES
Honeybee
Mon petit / ma petite chou
Dearest
Nightcrawler
Cuddlefish
Sweetpea
Little un’
Honey-bunny
Thailand
Clyde / Bonnie
Babe
Foxhole buddy
Adonis
Love
Kupo
Buttons
Japan
Buckles
MOSAD (Most Special and Adored)
Flower (a la Bambi)
Penny
Panda
Duckie
Faun
Cuddles / Snuggles
Anchor
Sweet one
Bestie
Wonderland
Lotus
Beautiful
Germany
Mittens
Dance partner
Invisible friend
So what do you like? What do you like to be called, and what do you like to call others? I want to know.
Love,
Aries
Monday, August 30, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Love, love, love
Facts:
1. I am very happy.
2. I am a good waitress.
3. I am in love.
4. I have amazing friends!
5. I am aligning my priorities.
6. Everything is changing all the time, especially my luck.
*
Elaboration:
I am in love. I am very happy. I have a priority, a person. Johnny.
We spend a lot of time together, and have become companions. I am being a really shitty friend to my DC accomplices, and am sad about that, but my besotted state will only persist for the next two weeks.
When I was a kid, I marked off my height against the kitchen door in pen, with the date next to the escalating number. To encourage me, my parents showed me their numbers of getting taller and taller (which they fabricated). And I got confused. I correlated height with age – I thought I would just get taller, and taller, until I died.
One day, I would grow so large that I would no longer be able to fit through the doorframe. I would lay helpless and enormous in the living room, slowly starving to death. My giant form would dwindle to enormous bones. Alice doesn’t make it to wonderland.
I see the shelf life on this relationship, the expiration date when my affections swell, spilling out of my organs and in my marrow. It will seep into my blood, like some gorgeous sepsis. My heartbeat will skip and falter. The writing is on the door.
In two weeks, the relationship will be (mostly) over.
And dammit, I love this boy. I’ve passed from a mega-gross squee-fest to a more sedate, stable, but constant pulse of affection and care. I say we reflexively. The idea of being separate for the last two weeks of summer was unimaginable. Every time I see him, other things fade to monotone and sepia. His skin is satin, his ideals are vivid. I want him, constantly and intensely. It’s hard to get out of bed, to leave the warmth of our bodies. It’s hard to stop holding him in the morning. It’s amazing to wake up and realize I can hold onto this crazy dreamboy, and not have him slip away into dream-dust-in-the-eyes and bleary disappointment. Wonderland.
I will be different in two weeks. I will drink too much, sleep too little. More career-focused, more individualistic, a better friend. I will cry. My enormous form will dwindle.
The background will grow fruitful again, and I’ll be able to pick out the beauty of the fall as the incredible warmth of summer recedes. And I’ll visit Ohio to find that warmth again. I'll get the warm-and-fuzzies for Oberlin all over again.
But for now? I’m in love, dammit. I’m going to enjoy it. It’s a priority.
1. I am very happy.
2. I am a good waitress.
3. I am in love.
4. I have amazing friends!
5. I am aligning my priorities.
6. Everything is changing all the time, especially my luck.
*
Elaboration:
I am in love. I am very happy. I have a priority, a person. Johnny.
We spend a lot of time together, and have become companions. I am being a really shitty friend to my DC accomplices, and am sad about that, but my besotted state will only persist for the next two weeks.
When I was a kid, I marked off my height against the kitchen door in pen, with the date next to the escalating number. To encourage me, my parents showed me their numbers of getting taller and taller (which they fabricated). And I got confused. I correlated height with age – I thought I would just get taller, and taller, until I died.
One day, I would grow so large that I would no longer be able to fit through the doorframe. I would lay helpless and enormous in the living room, slowly starving to death. My giant form would dwindle to enormous bones. Alice doesn’t make it to wonderland.
I see the shelf life on this relationship, the expiration date when my affections swell, spilling out of my organs and in my marrow. It will seep into my blood, like some gorgeous sepsis. My heartbeat will skip and falter. The writing is on the door.
In two weeks, the relationship will be (mostly) over.
And dammit, I love this boy. I’ve passed from a mega-gross squee-fest to a more sedate, stable, but constant pulse of affection and care. I say we reflexively. The idea of being separate for the last two weeks of summer was unimaginable. Every time I see him, other things fade to monotone and sepia. His skin is satin, his ideals are vivid. I want him, constantly and intensely. It’s hard to get out of bed, to leave the warmth of our bodies. It’s hard to stop holding him in the morning. It’s amazing to wake up and realize I can hold onto this crazy dreamboy, and not have him slip away into dream-dust-in-the-eyes and bleary disappointment. Wonderland.
I will be different in two weeks. I will drink too much, sleep too little. More career-focused, more individualistic, a better friend. I will cry. My enormous form will dwindle.
The background will grow fruitful again, and I’ll be able to pick out the beauty of the fall as the incredible warmth of summer recedes. And I’ll visit Ohio to find that warmth again. I'll get the warm-and-fuzzies for Oberlin all over again.
But for now? I’m in love, dammit. I’m going to enjoy it. It’s a priority.
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