2020年1月2日 星期四

Help! My Parents Don’t Believe I Have a Chronic Illness.


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Dear Prudence,

I have fibromyalgia, a chronic and unpredictable illness that causes severe pain and fatigue. I’m doing my best to manage it but have had to give up a lot, including my job. Using a wheelchair on days when I need to travel long distances and be out of the house would really improve my quality of life. I haven’t been able to broach the topic of getting a wheelchair with my parents because they are quite ableist and have made it clear they think people who can walk and use wheelchairs are lazy. My parents still don’t accept that I am really unwell and constantly struggling just to get out of bed. How do I convince them that getting a wheelchair is the best thing for me moving forward?

—I Need a Wheelchair

If you don’t need your parents’ financial or logistical support in buying a wheelchair, it’s better to move ahead with your plans now and tell them about it afterward. If you live with them or rely on them for financial assistance, I think the best way to broach the subject is to say something like, “I’ve been thinking about getting a wheelchair to help with X and Y and make leaving the house more manageable. As you may have noticed, I’m not able to leave as often as I used to.” If you lead with a statement of intent as well as a handful of ways it’ll improve your mobility and quality of life, and stress the personal benefits of occasional wheelchair use, they may be more inclined to take you seriously than if you were to ask their permission.

I wish you didn’t have to delicately manage their skepticism, but I want you to be able to anticipate and avoid any possible objections. If you do live at home, and despite your best attempts, they remain totally obstinate, I’d recommend contacting a local independent living facility or disability rights organization (if there are any in your area) to ask for advice and support as you figure out your other options. Maybe a friend could place the order for you and help you assemble it. Whatever you need, I think it’ll help to cultivate as many backup sources of support as you possibly can, so that your parents are never the first and last option. Good luck!

Dear Prudence,

My husband has a close female friend. I don’t mind that he’s friends with other women, but I don’t like her. Recently I learned she’d been talking to him about “sugaring” (an alternative to bikini waxing), and I don’t like that she’s talking like that with my husband. It led to our first big fight, and we’ve been married for two years without really quarreling. I told him he needs boundaries with her. He was against my confronting her, saying, “That’s just how she is.” But if she really was his friend, it shouldn’t be a big deal to respect boundaries. Which leads me to think she must talk this way to him all the time. We fought for a week, and finally he said he would stop being friends with her. But they go to meetups together, and he’s not going to be able to avoid her. I don’t even know if I believe he would stop being friends with her after putting up such a fight.

I contacted her to tell her I thought what she said was inappropriate, but I’d like to get to know her better since she’s my husband’s best friend. My husband didn’t seem happy that we made plans, but we went out for drinks anyways. I don’t really get why he likes her. She’s the total opposite of me. She’s very high maintenance, and I just can’t find any common ground with her. She has no interest in trying to be friends with me. At this point I’m trying to ignore her existence, and I told my husband never to mention her name to me. This is a thorn in the side of our marriage that will soon cause an infection. I brought up couples therapy, but I think he thinks that’s a last resort for failing couples. I brought up getting my own therapist who can help me cope with this. I’ve talked to friends and family who have taken my side. I love him and don’t want him to see me as somebody who is controlling. But I want my feelings validated, and I can’t ignore this. If I’m wrong and dealing with this in the wrong way, that’s fine. I think talking to somebody and getting help will help me better deal with the situation and grow from this experience and to be a better person for us. I also think he’s afraid that somebody will tell him he’s wrong. He told one of his buddies what happened in our fight, and I heard it from his wife and that wasn’t the story at all. So either my husband lied about it, or his buddy was downplaying it. I’m really at wits’ end and emotional and upset. I know this is a lot.

—Inappropriate Best Friend

Let’s start with the good news: You’re aware that your own reaction to this situation has often been irrational and made you feel completely overwhelmed. Moreover, you’re prepared to start seeing a therapist to help you develop better coping strategies when it comes to your compulsive desire to control and isolate your husband. All of that is really promising. But this is more than just “a lot,” and your problem isn’t that your husband might see you as a controlling person. Your problem is that you have blown up over what was, at the absolute worst, a slightly off-color conversation about personal grooming between two close, platonic friends, not an attempt at seduction; you have doubled down on your initial explosion by demanding your husband end his friendship with this woman, then seeking her out yourself pretending you wanted to befriend her when what you actually wanted to do was scare her off.

I respectfully disagree that “the total opposite of [you]” is high-maintenance. By your own admission, you are wildly high-maintenance. Your behavior has been inappropriate and unhinged, and unless this is all incredibly out of character for you, I suspect it’s part of a long-standing pattern that needs to change right away if you’re ever going to be able to make your marriage work. You need to apologize to your husband and start seeing a therapist immediately to start figuring out better coping strategies for your insecurities and persecution complex. I’m deeply worried that you have multiple friends and family members who have taken your side over this. Anyone willing to validate your feelings over this is either completely out of touch themselves, or they’re not getting the version of the story you just told me.

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Dear Prudence,

My daughters haven’t spoken to me in seven years. Their father was a mean man and a drunk, but he was a good father. That’s the only nice thing I can say about him—that he loved his daughters. I didn’t cry when he died. Later, I met “Elaine” and fell in love. It felt like coming home. My daughters were upset and didn’t understand. I was disappointed by their reaction. My eldest daughter had dated someone nonwhite in college and her father objected, but I’d stood up for her and supported their relationship. I hoped she’d do the same for me, but she called me a “dirty queer.” My youngest kept asking if this meant my marriage was a lie—even though she’d driven me to the hospital more than once when my husband beat me. I tried to be there for them, but when my eldest didn’t invite me to her engagement party, or even tell me it had taken place, I gave up.

Elaine and I got married after five years. I invited both my girls, but they never replied. I have a grandson I’ve never met. I have learned I can become accustomed to hurt better than to hope. My oldest daughter’s stepson is apparently gay, which has thrown her for a loop. She’s reached out and asked to “reconcile,” but her language is very precise and professional. It’s not an apology. I want one. Does this make me a bad mother? I love my girls, but I’m not so sure about the women they’ve become. I stayed with their father because he never hurt them, and I couldn’t afford to support them on my own. I was faithful his whole life. Elaine is my support and my soulmate. I love her. I am not going to apologize for that even for my girls. How do I move on from here?

—Waiting for an Apology

It sounds like you already know what you’re going to do. For what it’s worth, I think you’re making the right choice—probably the only choice. Being offered a conditional return to your daughter’s life as long as you pretend her cruelty and homophobic rejection never happened is not a foundation you can build a real, loving relationship on. You’re in a difficult position, but this isn’t a hard choice to make. You can’t reconcile on dishonest grounds.

You could let your daughters know that if they’re ever willing to honestly discuss the ways in which they hurt you, you’d take that call. But frankly, I’d understand it if you didn’t. You put it best yourself: that you can deal with the hurt you’ve had to carry with you for years better than false hope. You move on by enjoying the time you have with Elaine and the other people in your life who are willing to see you as a full person, worthy of kindness and respect. You can love your daughters from a distance without accepting their terms.

Dear Prudence,

I’m getting married in a few weeks. Because our friends have lots of dietary restrictions, we came up with the idea to throw a potluck wedding so everyone could have at least one thing they knew they could eat. Everyone seemed to think it was a great idea. We asked our friend “Sammi” to organize the list of who was bringing what, because we thought it would make her feel supported to have such an important role, plus it fit in naturally with her talents. But she’s taking the job too seriously, demanding everyone provide her with exhaustive ingredient lists and being very blunt. My uncle is a very shy person, and Sammi really upset him when she told him his proposed dish (chili and cornbread) was “inappropriate.”

She also said some very hurtful and personal things to my sweetheart’s mother, who was not enthusiastic about the potluck idea to start with. Now I am hearing day and night from guests upset with Sammi’s behavior. Several people have suddenly said that they are not going to be able to cook, and a few people have started making excuses for why they won’t be able to come at all. My sister (who has her own issues) has said she does not feel safe around Sammi, and my future mother-in-law is being passive aggressive as usual and saying she is just going to bring marshmallow treats, which almost no one will be able to eat. (Who brings marshmallow treats to a wedding?) I almost want to call the whole thing off. How do I fix this mess? There is not enough time to change the plan now, and anyway we don’t want to disappoint the friends who have put so much thought into what they will cook.

—Boiled Over

If there’s enough time to call the whole thing off, there’s enough time to change the plan. If Sammi is bullying your sensitive uncles and difficult mother-in-law, then it’s time to take Sammi off menu duty and to tell her why: “Sammi, we asked you to coordinate with our guests so we didn’t end up with nine versions of the same casserole, not so you could yell at people and tell them they’re not allowed to make cornbread. This isn’t working for us, so we’re going to hand over the job to someone else.” You and your fiancé should make your apologies to anyone who’s complained and reassure them that you had no idea Sammi would have treated them so rudely, and that she won’t be bothering them again.

Weddings are stressful. (I just had one last month!) And Sammi’s behavior has been genuinely atrocious. But some of this is small stuff. People bring marshmallow treats to potlucks. The worst-case scenario is that not many people eat the marshmallow treats and your mother-in-law has a lot of leftovers. One of the great things about passive-aggressive people, in comparison with aggressive people, is that if you just let them do whatever they were threatening to do, nothing bad really happens. “Fine! I guess I’ll just bring marshmallow treats,” can be met with “Great! Thanks for volunteering to bring marshmallow treats.”

You can have a longer conversation with Sammi about her behavior after the wedding when things no longer feel quite so dialed-in. In the meantime, reassign her duties to someone else, breathe, and enjoy your big day.

Dear Prudence Uncensored

“This is a health issue, not a matter of willpower.”

Danny Lavery and special guest Krystal Farmer discuss a letter in this week’s Dear Prudence Uncensored—only for Slate Plus members.

Dear Prudence,

I started transitioning about two years ago in my early 30s. Despite living in a small, conservative town, I have a great partner, supportive siblings, and a great circle of friends, and I’m doing pretty well. Since I came out, a lot of younger trans people who lack support have come into my life. No one’s on the verge of being kicked out of their home or anything, but sometimes I’m asked for my advice on subjects I really haven’t ever had to deal with. Recently a friend asked if I’d speak to a friend of theirs whose young child had been removed from school after questioning their gender and self-harming. I was happy to talk to her and offer my support, but I felt like a fraud. I want to help these kids, but I feel clueless beyond my own experience. I guess I’m wondering if there are resources for parents of younger trans kids, and how to help while I’m still figuring things out myself.

—Suddenly a Trans Elder

I feel, let’s say, acutely aware of the ways in which my own positioning as a professional advice-giver feels totally arbitrary and unearned, especially as someone who also didn’t start transitioning until my 30s and has barely three years of trans existence under my belt. I know almost nothing about what being a self-aware trans child is like. For what it’s worth, I don’t think these kids and parents are coming to you because they think you have all the answers, or because your experience exactly mirrors theirs. It sounds like they’re all pretty aware that your adult transition is distinct and unique. You’re not a fraud just because you haven’t experienced every single trans life it’s possible for a person to live. But by virtue of being a trans adult, you can offer at least a glimpse of what a particular version of the future might look like for them—someone with family and communal support, someone who’s “doing pretty well,” someone who’s made it past 30. So I don’t think you have to ask any more of yourself than you’re already doing. When it comes to recommending resources to anxious parents, I’d suggest TransYouth Family Allies, Trans Lifeline, the Trans Youth Equality Foundation, and good old-fashioned PFLAG.

Dear Prudence,

My mother could definitely limit the money she spends on me. Growing up she didn’t provide for me the way she did with my older sister (for example, paying for college and for cars), and I made sure she knew it (which I’m ashamed of now). It has been almost 10 years since all of this happened. I’ve partly gotten over it and remind myself that she was in a different financial position with my sister. I am now happily married and a stay-at-home mother. My mom is a teacher who makes less than half of what my husband does, but she spends a ridiculous amount of money on me and her grandson. I keep telling her to save for retirement (10–12 years away) instead. I feel guilty every time she arrives with new toys and gifts. A few years ago I started a savings account, and it’s grown fairly substantial. I thought about giving it to my mother on her retirement, but now I’ve thought about giving it to my son upon his graduation from high school or college.

How do I stop feeling guilty? I’ve already spoken to her about toning down the gifts, and she’s sort of listened. Do I give her the account and hope the guilt goes away? I just love her so much, and I really hope she’s not gifting us things to make up for the past. I am so scared that this will hinder her ability to retire comfortably.

—Mother’s Generosity

The question of how to address your guilt and the question of how to dispose of this savings account strike me as two totally separate things. For one thing, there’s no urgency behind making a decision about the savings account, since both your mother’s retirement and your son’s high school graduation are more than a decade away. (I’d be inclined to hang on to the money for potential emergencies your mother or your family may face, if I were in your position.) But what you need to do before making any financial decisions is to have an honest conversation with your mother. If you’re worried that she’s so generous now because she wants to make up for not being able to buy you things as a child, ask her. If you’re ashamed of being too hard on her as a kid because you wanted everything your sister had, offer her a meaningful apology and remind her how much she means to you. In the meantime, talk to your husband about your concerns for your mother’s retirement. Maybe the two of you can meet with a financial adviser (your mom might even be willing to join you) and research senior-assistance programs she might be eligible for in a few years. Revisit the savings account in a year or two when you’ve had more of these conversations and you have a better sense of what your mother needs and what you and your husband are prepared to offer.

Classic Prudie

After meeting my now sister-in-law, my brother washed his hands of our family and his former friends. We used to be quite close and to the extent of my knowledge there wasn’t a specific incident that led to his current behavior other than meeting his wife and adopting her lifestyle and family. While I acknowledge that his life is his choice, I’m struggling to deal with the impact his abandonment has had on my parents. For example, when my brother married, he only invited a handful of his relatives and friends (we didn’t even take up a whole table at the reception) to a 300-person ceremony, and my immediate family appeared in exactly two of thousands of photos. My mother cried for weeks afterward, and family friends constantly talk about staging an intervention. My brother and his wife never visit my parents, and he only calls if my SIL is not around. Now they have a small child, and my father refuses to acknowledge the child to keep from getting attached, and my mother’s heart is broken by not being able to have a relationship with her grandchild. The situation is only made worse by a plethora of pictures and comments online to the tune of “My mother is the best grammy ever!” and “(Baby) is so lucky to have such an amazing family!” in reference to my SIL’s folks. I hate having all the holiday appearances and grandchildren needs fall on my shoulders, but more importantly, I hate seeing my parents hurt without knowing the reason why. What can I say or do to help the situation?

Slate Plus members get extra questions, Prudie Uncensored with Nicole Cliffe, and full-length podcast episodes every week.

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Why We Keep Sending Music to Extraterrestrials


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Each summer for the past 25 years, tens of thousands of people have flocked to Barcelona, Spain, to witness Sónar, a three-day festival dedicated to electronic music, art, and design. Something of a cross between a TED talk, Burning Man, and Coachella, Sónar has evolved from a small experiment into an event that the New York Times described as a “European institution” in 2017. It’s also the closest thing we have to an extraterrestrial envoy.

To celebrate Sónar’s 25th anniversary in 2018, the festival partnered with the Catalonia Institute for Space Studies and the nonprofit METI International to send a series of interstellar messages to Luyten’s star, a red dwarf about 12 light-years from Earth. Although red dwarfs are the most common stellar objects in our galaxy, Luyten’s star is remarkable for hosting GJ237b, the closest potentially habitable planet outside of our own solar system. No one knows for sure whether GJ237b hosts life, intelligent or otherwise, but if ET does call the planet home, Sónar wants to rock its socks off.

Over the course of several nights in late 2017 and early 2018, a radar system in Tromsø, Norway, blasted a custom message from Sónar toward GJ237b. Like any good correspondence, the message began with a greeting: In this case, the first 33 prime numbers repeated on two alternating radio frequencies functioned as a stand-in for “hello.” This was followed by a brief tutorial that the message designers hoped would teach ET to extract the music written by Sónar-affiliated musicians and embedded in the message.

Each song in the Sónar messages is only a few seconds long and might only be called music in the loosest sense of the word. One track was created by feeding an algorithm music and letting it remix the notes as it saw fit, which resulted in something that sounds like a horror movie sound effect. Another uses the atomic numbers of a handful of oxygen, silicon, and other elements as the frequencies for pure tones. These arrangements don’t make for easy listening, but that’s not the point. Instead, the artists use music as a way of conveying information, whether it’s about our aesthetic sensibilities, our technology, or our physiology—all topics that would presumably be of interest to an extraterrestrial recipient.

In many respects, the Sónar messages are on well-trodden ground. The first human-made object to make it to interstellar space, the Voyager 1 spacecraft, carries a gold-plated phonographic record that includes Mexican folk music, early rock and roll, a Peruvian wedding song, and more. In 2001, a message sent from the Evpatoria radar in Ukraine included theremin renditions of Beethoven, Vivaldi, and Gershwin; a few years later, NASA blasted a Beatles song at a star 400 light-years away.

But the Sónar messages are unique insofar as they are the only interstellar transmissions to use songs designed by musicians specifically for communicating with ET. That the messages include a substantial information content places them firmly in the tradition of messaging extraterrestrial intelligences, or METI, a term coined by the Russian radio astronomer Alexander Zaitsev to differentiate the practice from other modes of interstellar communication. The Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence, or SETI, is focused on listening for ET signals rather than sending them, and “active SETI” is about creating beacons that lack information but signal to alien intelligences that we exist.

Historically, interstellar communication has tended toward formalism, or systems in which elements are manipulated according to stringent rules. (So a game like chess is highly formalized, whereas natural language is less so.) For example, the lingua cosmica developed in 1960, the first artificial language for interstellar communication, is based on a mixture of logic, mathematics, and natural language syntax. (The Cosmic Call transmissions in 1999 and 2003 used a custom symbolic language based on the lingua cosmica.) More recently, the Dutch computer scientist Alexander Ollongren proposed a second generation of the lingua cosmica that was derived from lambda calculus, a highly formalized logical system.

These systems lend themselves to straightforward analysis—the idea is that aliens could tease out the rules of the system without understanding what the symbols themselves mean. Music is sometimes perceived as the opposite, ineffable, something that is not so much understood as felt. But as any musician will tell you, there is also deep logic inherent to music: There are equal distances between notes in a scale, notes can be combined in certain ways called harmonics, rhythm can be expressed in numerical ratios called time signatures, and so on. Music is a hybrid of logic and emotion, the yin and yang of the human experience.

In this respect, music is an ideal medium for interstellar communication, but it must be tailored for transmission across billions of miles of empty space. When I hear music on Earth my ear is registering the compression of the surrounding air, but there’s no air in space so ET can’t hear a musical message directly. The music must first be encoded into the radio wave in either an analog or digital format. (Both have been used to send music across interstellar space.) Music’s inherent formalism suggests that an ET that lacks the ability to hear could gainfully analyze various elements of music—its rhythm, pitch, and so on—by studying the way these elements are encoded in radio waves.

If the goal of METI is to convey information about Earth, neglecting to include music would be a major oversight.

Douglas Vakoch, the founder of the METI Institute and the director of the Sónar messaging effort, the composer Andrew Kaiser, and Ollongren have all proposed unique ways for encoding musical concepts in interstellar messages. For example, Vakoch has suggested a method to use icons to teach musical concepts to aliens. (Unlike symbols, which bear no resembles to the thing they represent, icons directly resemble the thing they represent.) So to teach the concept of rhythm, an interstellar message could be pulsed rhythmically. And what might an ET learn from its analysis of the formal elements of music encoded in an interstellar message? According to Vakoch, musical messages can teach ET quite a bit about human physiology. For example, the number of notes in a scale can be used to establish how sensitive we are to differences between notes.

Beyond the practicalities of using music as a basis for an interstellar message, it’s also worth considering its role in the human experience. Aspects of music are found in nearly every culture on Earth. Unlike language, anyone—at least, any human who can hear and/or perceive rhythm—can “understand” music, even if those who cannot play an instrument or interpret the notes upon a staff. If the goal of METI is to convey information about Earth and the people who inhabit it, neglecting to include music would be a major oversight.

The ubiquity of music on Earth is a good thing, but when it comes to interstellar messaging it poses a problem: How do we select which songs to send to ET? Historically, the musical contents of interstellar messages have been extremely biased toward Western classical music, which hardly captures the diversity of musical styles found on our planet. This bias arises from the lack of diversity in the small committees of individuals responsible for selecting the music for interstellar transmission. (Jon Lomberg, who helped design the Voyager golden records, attempted to create a more diverse message for the New Horizons mission, which will be the next to enter interstellar space. But it was not included on the spacecraft.)

But any selection process that only considers already existing music is bound to suffer from cultural biases. It is simply impossible to create a corpus of music that represents every cultural group on Earth or every genre of music. This suggests that intentionally designing music for interstellar transmission is the most promising path forward insofar as it would effectively be creating an entirely new genre of music. Not only would it avoid selection bias, but it opens the possibility of creating music that carries a maximum amount of information about the species that created it. This is a radical departure from music’s typical function of connecting humans with one another; the new extraterrestrial music would be composed to connect two entirely different intelligent species across vast expanses of time and space.

The musical elements of the 2018 Sónar messages were a first tentative step in the direction of extraterrestrial music, but they won’t be the last. Earlier this year, the SETI Institute announced its Earthling project, which is crowdsourcing original music from all around the globe. These samples will form the basis of a seven-part music composition called “Earthling” that will be performed at the Allen Telescope Array in Northern California, the only telescope in the U.S.
dedicated to the search for extraterrestrial intelligence. The Earthling project aims to create a collective composition that represents humanity writ large and will hopefully avoid the bias that has plagued past musical interstellar messages. Although there is no plan to broadcast the composition into the cosmos, the project is can teach us a great deal about how to compose music with an eye toward interstellar communication.

When Carl Sagan set about designing the Voyager Golden Record, he understood humanity’s first musical interstellar message was unlikely to ever be intercepted by an extraterrestrial intelligence. Nevertheless, he recognized that “launching this bottle into the cosmic ocean says something very hopeful about life on this planet.” The same holds true for all future musical interstellar messages, even if our terrestrial melodies never grace an extraterrestrial ear.

Future Tense is a partnership of Slate, New America, and Arizona State University that examines emerging technologies, public policy, and society.



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Billionaires’ Favorite Tax Reform

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When President Trump passed his tax overhaul in 2017, Democrats and Republicans were excited about the prospect of one specific provision. ‘Opportunity zones’ were meant to spur investment in low-income communities. Two years later, it’s unclear if that has actually happened. Billionaires, on the other hand, are benefitting from the program left and right.

Guest: Justin Elliott, reporter at ProPublica.

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Podcast production by Mary Wilson, Jayson De Leon, Danielle Hewitt, and Mara Silvers.



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2020年1月1日 星期三

The Fainting of Betelgeuse


Begirt with many a blazing star, Orion the Hunter is one of the most recognizable constellations. In this night skyscape the Hunter's stars rise in the northern hemisphere's winter sky on December 30, 2019, tangled in bare trees near Newnan, Georgia, USA. Red super giant star Betelgeuse stands out in yellowish hues at Orion's shoulder left of center, but it no longer so strongly rivals the blue supergiant star Rigel at the Hunter's foot. In fact, skygazers around planet Earth can see a strikingly fainter Betelgeuse now, its brightness fading by more than half in the final months of 2019. Betelgeuse has long been known to be a variable star, changing its brightness in multiple cycles with approximate short and long term periods of hundreds of days to many years. The star is now close to its faintest since photometric measurements in 1926/27, likely due in part to a near coincidence in the minimum of short and long term cycles. Betelgeuse is also recognized as a nearby red supergiant star that will end its life in a core collapse supernova explosion sometime in the next 1,000 years, though that cosmic cataclysm will take place a safe 700 light-years or so from our fair planet. via NASA https://ift.tt/2SKKJpZ

Dear Prudence Podcast: Help! A Guest Pulled Out Her Laptop and Loudly Did Homework During My Wedding Vows.

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Prudence is joined this week by Grace Lavery, an associate professor of English at the University of California, Berkeley who occasionally feels like she has an alien in her throat.

Prudie and Lavery go back and look at some of the many memorable letters of 2019 that were addressed with the help of Francesca Fiorentini, Justine D’Souza, Connor Goldsmith, Helen Rosner, Clementine Ford, Nichole Perkins, Bim Adewunmi, and Alexandra Petri.

Prudie and company tackled letters about whether you should tell your friend that her porn- and weed-addicted fiancé might not be “the one,” what to consider about hanging on to your secret that you gave away your boyfriend’s dog, what to do when a DNA kit reveals you married your first cousin, what to do when a member of your fine dining club can no longer afford to pay but insists on coming anyway, what to know when you keep having dreams about your ex-boyfriend even though you will never be together again in reality, what to do with a boyfriend who spontaneously masturbates while you’re laid out sick, and how to process your anger over a friend who worked on her laptop during your wedding vows.

Access all of Prudie’s podcasts and columns here.

Got a question for Prudie? Send it to prudence@slate.com or leave a voicemail message at 401-371-DEAR (3327), and you may hear your question answered on a future episode of the show.

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My Boyfriend Says He’s “Asexual,” but Then Initiates Hot Sex With Me


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How to Do It is Slate’s sex advice column. Have a question? Send it to Stoya and Rich here. It’s anonymous!

Dear How to Do It,

I am a straight woman in my late 20s dating a man of the same age. My boyfriend told me he was asexual when I met him. I am not, but that was never a problem; he is OK with hand stuff and receiving oral sex, and we have had a satisfying relationship for more than three years. Recently, we have begun having penetrative sex at his suggestion. Personally, I am thrilled. I had never hoped to change him or try to suggest penetrative sex, but I do really enjoy it and am happy that we can bring it into our relationship. I have been trying to have more conversations about it just to make sure he is comfortable with this shift, but he does not really want to have them after sex or in the daylight at all. He seems to be having an OK time with it (he enjoys himself during the act and continues to initiate it), but he does not want to talk with me explicitly about how he currently identifies. How can I best support him in what seems to be a transitional period regarding sex and sexual ID?

—Something-Sexual

Dear Something-Sexual,

This is not my wheelhouse, so I called in Cyndi Darnell, sex and relationship therapist and friend of the column, for some expert advice. Here’s what she had to say about what you can expect from your partner:

How your partner identifies is important and how he participates in sex may be influenced and determined by his identity too. Similarly, your sexual and emotional needs are important and require care and attention also. He may not want to discuss his identity with you which, while frustrating for you, is his private business. However, if he is having sexual interactions with you and you want to talk about that, he needs to recognize that having frank and honest discussions about sex and its effect on your relationship is an important part of any mature adult intimate relationship. Talking about sex—when you’re not in the middle of doing it—is crucial to keeping tabs on how it’s going.

His identity is not a get-out-of-jail-free card to avoid having conversations he may find challenging. People of all orientations and identities are obliged to nourish their relationships by participating in communication and care. Discussing sex is a crucial part of having a rich erotic relationship whether you’re having intercourse or only giving each other oral and hand jobs. Whether he’s experiencing an erotic transition or morphing into demisexuality rather than strictly asexuality, it may be as bewildering to him as it is to you.

To help you get a little clearer, I invite you to consider what exactly you’d like to know about his identity, especially given that he’s initiating sex, and, as you say, appears happy about it. Are you simply trying to connect with him, or is there more you would like to know to help you understand the relationship further? Perhaps if you guided him around your communication motivation, he may be a little more open to it. Or perhaps talking about sex squicks him out, in which case now is a great time for him to learn to practice stepping up and doing it differently.

To summarize, you’re going to have to talk about (some of) it.

Dear How to Do It,

Woman in her 40s here.
Do vibrators decrease sensitivity to pleasuring with fingering? I learned to masturbate in my mid-20s and initially just used my fingers and porn. I never had a vaginal orgasm, although I do very much enjoy vaginal intercourse. My first masturbation orgasm opened a whole new world for me. Then I discovered vibrators, and instead of 10 to 15 minutes for me to orgasm, it was two to five minutes for the most part—sometimes longer, but rarely more than 10 minutes.

I never orgasmed from fingering from a partner until my current spouse, and while it took a while, it still happened maybe every second or third time. I loved it. Then we had kids, and no one has the energy for loooong sex sessions anymore, so it was easier for me to just use the vibrator after (together) or on my own. Some years went by, and we now have a bit more time occasionally, and he’s put some real effort into masturbating me, but has not been able to get me to orgasm again. I’ve come close, but then I always get anxious about how long it’s taking, and whether he’s tired already, and I “lose” it.

One thing I’ve wondered about is whether my use of vibrators has “dulled” things, making me less sensitive? I can no longer finger myself to an orgasm anymore either, nor do I have the patience or energy, frankly, when a vibrator will do the job in two to three minutes. I do use a very strong vibrator and like it that way. My spouse is OK with me using it after to “finish up,” but I do miss orgasming from his fingering. Do I need to suck it up, stop using a vibrator, and learn how to masturbate with my own fingers again to regain it? Do vibrators make a difference to sensitivity and that is indeed the issue, or is that a myth?

Is it all in my head, and it’s my anxiety about me taking too long to orgasm with his fingering that is stopping me from reaching orgasm? Is it possible to orgasm from someone else’s fingering, when I can’t even do it for myself anymore? Your insights on this will be greatly appreciated.

—Can’t Put My Finger on It

Dear Can’t Put My Finger on It,

The body can absolutely become accustomed to a certain kind of stimulation. Yes, that includes vibrators. Take a break from the vibe for a few weeks and see what your sensory input is like after you’ve had some time off.

Another factor here is that sexuality shifts over the course of our lives. What you liked in your 30s and what you like in your 40s may be two different things. You might need different pressure or technique than you needed before you had kids.

You can experiment by yourself or with your husband. The goal here is to try all the things and find out what works now. Start with broad pressure (rest your palm on the pubic mound and apply gentle pressure to the vulva with your flat fingers). Move into strokes around the clitoris and clitoral hood. Work directly with the clitoral glans. Pay attention to the bottom of the labia and the crease between inner and outer labia. Follow what feels good. You’ve got this.

Dear How to Do It,

My husband and I are straight and have been poly for a couple years, and it’s working out really nicely for us. We’re fantastic, loving partners and parents together but aren’t sexually compatible, so I initiated the change to poly. We’re both stable, long-term-relationship kind of people. We both spend about the same amount of time with secondary partners, but he spreads his time among a few regular secondary partners and I prefer to have a single secondary partner. My secondary for the last year has been a man with a primary partner, and it’s been great. I don’t know his primary well, but my partner did a good job of balancing both. I felt cared for. We recently broke up, sadly but amicably, because he needed to focus more on his primary relationship.

While I’m not ready to date again just yet, it has me thinking about what’s next. If I could order up my perfect secondary, I’d like a single (divorced, widowed, whatever) man for whom I am the only one. I’m thinking someone who has a fulfilling independent life and/or busy enough schedule that a married woman he sees a couple nights a week fits. Someone with long-term potential who lived on his own but was maybe part of our family dynamic and who my kids saw as a family friend.

I’ve dated two single men before, and one wanted more of my time than I could give. The other one actually fit that ideal profile and it worked well for a while, but we broke up for unrelated reasons. I’m trying to decide if this is a realistic thing for me to seek. Are there men this might appeal to? I mean, I found one. Surely there are others? Or is it “un-poly” of me to want a secondary partner who sees only me, and I should be unpacking my reasons for wanting this? Am I really a monogamous person making do, and is that bad?

—Single Secondary

Dear Single Secondary,

I’d like us to take a minute to separate “poly” from individual needs and desires. Yes, there’s a poly community that does things in certain ways. Yes, there are a few books about poly relationships that seem to dictate how “poly” should be done. At the end of the day, though, different relationship structures should be about getting people’s needs met in ways that work for everyone involved.

So let go of any pressure you might be feeling to do poly “right.” As long as everyone involved is happy, I think everything is fine.

I do think you should unpack your reasons for wanting the arrangement you desire—for your own sake, and for that of your partners. The more you understand about what you want, the better you’ll be able to communicate that to your potential partners.

Remember this whole mono/poly thing is a spectrum. A forked spectrum. Complete monogamy is on one end, and the other end forks at ethical nonmonogamy into polyamory and relationship anarchy. The top fork is about structure and the bottom fork is about, well, not structure. You might be a 0.5 on the mono-poly scale. You might be a 1. Some people are in a relationship anarchy zone that requires the one word I promised my editor I wouldn’t use in this column: polyfuckery.

I do want to caution you that it’s unlikely you’ll find someone who wants to be a monogamous secondary for an extended period of time. Then again, the universe might surprise us both. Good luck out there.

Dear How to Do It,

My husband (of 13 years) says his preferred frequency is sex three times a week. I could go three months without thinking about sex. What do we do? If you’re going to say I should spend more time with my body by masturbating or using toys or porn or flirtatious texting—we have tried it all. Our sexual incompatibility remains the source of greatest tension in our relationship.

—Tale As Old As Time

Dear Tale As Old As Time,

Have you considered opening up the relationship? It isn’t necessarily going to be easy, but it would allow you to have sex on your own schedule while knowing your partner’s needs are getting met.

You might find Emily Nagoski’s Come As You Are useful, too. It talks a lot about different arousal styles and how partners can use that knowledge to help their lover’s engine get started.

Either way, remember that you love each other and communicate to the best of your ability.

—Stoya

More How to Do It

I’m dating a new man. When we became intimate, I was pleasantly surprised that he was very well-endowed (about 8 inches). The sex is solid and getting better, but I’ve noticed his erections are not particularly, well, erect—he’s definitely hard and penetration isn’t a problem, but he’s not rock-hard like many men I’ve been with in the past. I raise this question because it reminded me that another very well-endowed man I was with in the past also had this issue; he’d be hard, but he was never going to cut a diamond. Is this common? Is there just not enough blood to power the biggest guys?



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In 2020, Skip Your Resolutions—Embrace a Vice


Lisa Larson-Walker

Welcome to 2020. A new year means it’s time to strive, once again, away from sloppiness and inconsistency and toward perfection—or at least, to make a showy embrace of a new habit that will be mostly forgotten by March. This year, though, we advise you to do it differently. Rather than resolving to be better, resolve to be bad. You don’t even need to look for a new habit to onboard. Just identify one small thing you already do, something you’re not really supposed to do, but that you do anyway (or have always desperately wanted to do). And then, accept it as fine. Maybe even accept it as good.

Your vice of choice might be something you’ve been taught is antithetical to personal growth (like outright refusing to join a gym). It might be something that is, objectively, quite bad for you. Whatever it is, it should be something that holds special meaning for you—something that makes you feel good, for one reason or another. Perhaps accepting a vice will allow you to channel more energy toward a more pressing project. Perhaps it will simply move you further from the tyranny of endless self-improvement. Whatever the purpose, what we hope is that it brings you a small bit of happiness. In that spirit, here are the vices we’re holding onto in 2020: joyfully, pragmatically, in spite of ourselves.

Q-tips Are Fine

Lisa Larson-Walker

You shouldn’t put anything smaller than your elbow in your ear, the adage goes. But I do. I just love the feeling of twisting a Q-tip in my ear canal when I get out of the shower. Or right after I wake up. Or when I’m about to leave for a night out. I stock-pile them in my apartment. When I see a jarful in the bathroom of a gym, I thrill, as though I were a smoker and they were cigarettes. I can tell you that the best Q-tips are actually the rougher generic ones, not the fluffy brand-name ones—the former is better for scraping at that little bit of inner ear skin. Q-tips are annoying to pack in a toiletry kit (they get grimy), which means I miss them when I’m on vacation.

Q-tips are, in medical terms, unnecessary. Left unperturbed, wax will naturally make its way out of the ear canal; it is a self-cleaning orifice. Actually, “unnecessary” is a rosy way of putting it; speaking with full scientific accuracy, Q-tips are more like an “active menace.” They can thrust wax deeper into the ear canal, where it can build up. Pushed too far, the Q-tip can perforate eardrums and cause hearing loss. From time to time, they make the news for instigating life-threatening infections. Q-tips and children, especially, should not mix.

So, the very thing the Q-tip was invented for is the very thing you definitely should not use it for. “Q-tips are one of the most perplexing things for sale in America,” the Washington Post once declared. But if you consider the Q-tip as not a hygiene tool, but an outright vice, in the league of motorcycles, and shots of vodka, it makes perfect sense. Dangerous things often feel good.

I have tried to quit Q-tips. It has never stuck. In fact, banishing them from my home only leaves me eyeing increasingly pointy small objects with the urge to push them toward my eardrums: bobby-pins, pen caps, worse. And there are so many other tiny little things I have been working on changing in my life that feel more worth the effort. Maybe someday I’ll manage to banish Q-tips. In the meantime, I’ll revel in the joy getting at that little bit of earwax brings me. —Shannon Palus

Wake Up to Twitter

Obviously, unquestionably, Twitter is unhealthy. I don’t have the patience for technical debates about what makes something formally “addictive” or not; I pull out my phone and check Twitter when I’m uncomfortable (sharing elevator space with strangers, dealing with bickering children) or just bored, to take a compulsive break from the feeling of being alive. Often enough the feeling I get in return is a bad one. When I force myself to leave my phone in my pocket for an hour or a day or a weekend, I can sense my mind pulling its frayed edges back together into a more whole and wholesome condition.

Lisa Larson-Walker

Everyone agrees about this, and most people further agree that the one of the very worst, most abjectly dependent things people can do on Twitter is to check it first thing in the morning. Roll over, open your eyes to the artificial blue light, and take a dose of internet poison before anything else. What could be more shameful? The tech resisters say the thing to do is to leave your phone in a whole other room.

But for me, wake-up Twitter is Twitter at its least alienating and intrusive. My alarm goes off, on my phone; I lie in bed on the edge of sleep, aware of the things I have to do but unconvinced it’s worth crossing over into consciousness to do them. I squint and scroll the feed and see what’s on the minds of other people: early risers, British people, folks who stayed angry well after I’d turned in. Something in there—a piece of overnight breaking news, a subway delay, a terrible take—jabs a little harpoon into my drifting brain and drags me fully awake. The new day assumes a shape and identity.

At some point, I recognized that this is not some new dystopian affliction, but an old habit, one I picked up before Jack Dorsey was even born. When I was a small child, my parents would play the AM radio in the mornings: national news, world news, local news, sports, traffic, weather, commentary, music. (Yes, music; format boundaries had not been drawn as narrowly and rigidly then as they are now.) The disembodied voices of people I’d never met would bring me the news I’d missed, and call me to wake up, pay attention, get going. It was—and still is—the opposite of being alienated or numb. —Tom Scocca

Ditch Family Dinner

If you are a parent of at least one small child, you have probably heard that you must—MUST!—serve dinner family style. This way, your kids can learn some table manners, absorb your love of salad, and eventually climb the eating ladder from “wild hyena” to “reasonable human.” But, you might have also heard, it’s best for their tiny brains to put them to bed between 6:30 and 8 p.m. Who can manage both an early bedtime and a proper family meal, particularly if you are a working parent with any kind of commute?

Lisa Larson-Walker

This, then, is my (extremely middle-aged) vice: my kid eats dinner on her own. To be clear, she is not alone. For now, when the window between school and bedtime is so narrow, I have given myself permission to feed my child dinner at the kitchen counter, while I do the daytime dishes and get dinner ready for myself and my husband. She sits there, eating a small portion of something left over from last night’s adult dinner, or a bit of a previous week’s meal that reheated from the freezer. (We might be anti-family dinner, but we’re pro- prep and planning.) My husband sits beside her, drinks coffee, and we all chat about the matters of the day.

Then, if it’s getting late—and it always is—we merge dinner into her bath time. Her pupusas and rice and peas perch on the edge of the tub. We read her a book, and she finishes her food while soaking. She heads to sleep sometime shortly after seven, done and dusted well within the bedtime guideline. We go on to eat our own dinners together at a regular adult hour. The shame! (It’s the best.)

If you need more permission to join us on the dark side, I recommend Episode 23 of the Comfort Food podcast, which is an interview with Kate Tellers, a mom of two kids under 4 who admits to doing almost exactly what we do in this house (minus the eating in the bath part). As the hosts of the podcast point out, if you’re doing a lot of eating together at other times—breakfast, weekends—it’s probably okay to let weekday family dinners, when small kids are at their most done, slide a bit. For us, we’ll keep on doing it this way until bedtime changes—or, until our tub gets clogged with rice. —Rebecca Onion

Drink on the Job

Lisa Larson-Walker

I’m an enormous fan of drinking one and a half beers during the workday. It’s the perfect amount of beer to perk up your mood, to stifle your inner critic, and to coax your tired 2 p.m. soul into taking a low-stakes risk. If you’ve got a job for which creativity is a boon, at which you have some degree of autonomy, and where you’re not operating heavy machinery, I suggest you occasionally drink one and a half beers too.

Don’t get sauced in the workplace, like Don Draper (or Slate’s own Emily Bazelon and Hanna Rosin that one time). Don’t drink at work every day, or even every week. Certainly never do it if you might get fired. But there is real value in, every once in a while, lubricating your desk job with the exact right number of beers, which is one and one half.

My colleagues at Slate are aware of my occasional mid-afternoon consumption of a single beer, and then half of another beer. We conduct meetings at Slate via videoconferencing. While some of my co-workers apparently have been stressing out about what they look like on camera, I’ve never been shy about calling in from the local beer garden, saison in hand.

No one’s ever reprimanded me about it, perhaps because Slate’s a slightly quirky workplace, or because I’m senior enough and annoying enough that it’s not worth the trouble. But even if someone did, I would strenuously advocate—indeed, am in this very post strenuously advocating—mild, infrequent drinking at work.

My occasional 1.5 beers help me rethink a story that just wasn’t working or steer me toward an idea I’ve shied away from before. Indeed, this very blog was produced under the influence of precisely 1.5 beers. If you think this blog is bad—well, imagine how bad it would’ve been without the beers!

Now, your one and a half beers might not be one and a half beers. Depending on body weight, ABV, and your predilection for tipsy giggling, it might be two beers, or half a glass of wine, or the head and feet but not the torso of one weed-laced gummy bear. What you’re looking for is to be gently altered such that you have the creativity to come up with surprising ideas (and the self-confidence to pursue them), but not so tipsy that you’re tired or your judgment is seriously impaired. Randall Munroe, in his comic xkcd, calls this sweet spot the “Ballmer peak.” I call it one and a half beers. Cheers! Now back to work. —Dan Kois

Stop “Working Out”

I have never paid to belong to a gym. It’s not that I’m against gyms, though, to be honest, I am certainly not the kind of person who is “comfortable” in a gym—the machinery confuses me, I don’t know what to do about eye contact, there are never the right number of windows. Also, I refuse to believe it is logical that we just waste energy on working out? (Can’t we turn our working out into energy? We’re in a climate crisis!) OK, so maybe I’m against gyms. But I’m not against exercise. I ran a half-marathon a few weeks ago! I do that about twice a year.

Lisa Larson-Walker

What I am really against is the idea of “regular exercise,” a thing that gyms promote. You join, you pay a monthly fee, you stay a member forever. You feel obligated to keeping going to this indoor space and doing all of the things that resemble exercise—what is an elliptical supposed to even be?—a certain number of times a week, even when you don’t feel like it. This is what you’re supposed to do to be a healthy person who does not waste her gym membership fees. But…sometimes I just don’t want to do a thing that looks like exercise. I don’t want to change into a sports bra; I don’t want to get sweaty. Sometimes I just want to go for a long walk, or do light yoga (OK, just pigeon) while sitting in front of my TV. Sometimes, I just want to … not formally exercise, for weeks, even months at a time.

Indulging these desires makes occasional periods of training for a race an indulgence, too. I have developed an extremely good routine around what this entails: starting six weeks before, I do a long run each Saturday, starting at seven miles and ticking up one mile a week until the race. I also try to run a couple times during the week. Is this exactly the kind of regimented workout regime that I am arguing against? Yeah, I guess so.

But my point is that I only sign up for this kind of thing when I’m feeling that sort of nervous energy that makes this routine feel right. I don’t wear a watch. I don’t stress when I miss runs. And the rest of the time? I go back to doing whatever I feel like, whenever I feel like it. And somewhere deep in my soul, I suspect this has given me a better relationship with my body than any gym or regular routine ever could. —Susan Matthews

Sleep In on Weekdays

I sleep in almost every single day. Yes, that includes workdays. When I am forced to awaken before 9 a.m., I feel horrible: nauseated, disoriented, irritated, and sad. On days when my job as a reporter requires me to attend Supreme Court arguments, which typically begin at 10 a.m., I am bedraggled and weary, comforted only by the fact that Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, a famed night owl, is probably just as tired as I am .

Lisa Larson-Walker

As a teenager, I had assumed that I, too, was simply a creature of the night. But the key factor isn’t when I go to bed. As an adult, I manage to go to be before midnight every weekday, and it makes no difference. Waking up before 9 a.m. is still torture. I am squarely an anti-morning bird; I need to huddle in the nest long past sunrise. When I wake up after 9 a.m., I feel glorious. I am energetic and enthusiastic. The world is a good place to be. Any earlier, though, and I am a cranky wreck.

This indulgence could cause problems, but it does not, because I have structured my life around it. I married a man who is game to wake up first thing and walk our dog before he heads to work at 8 a.m. On the rare days when my husband does not walk her, she has been trained to wait until I stir to come pester me for a stroll. I found a workplace with flexible hours and a boss who doesn’t mind that I decline every request to appear on radio or television before 9 a.m.

Every so often, a brand new friend or professional contact asks to meet over breakfast. I’ve stopped concocting excuses to get out of these confabs and now simply tell the truth: We will never, ever have breakfast together, because you are not important enough to sacrifice sleep over. But could you do lunch?

When I explain my habit to early risers, they look at me as though I am some bedridden housewife in a Victorian novel. Why don’t they see that they’re the sick ones? Waking up at 5 a.m. to go to spin class is objectively deranged, bordering on a crime against human biology. It wouldn’t bother me if these people just didn’t need much sleep, but they’re always complaining about how tired they are. Their choice is pure vanity, favoring a sculpted bod over a revivified brain. They wear their under-eye bags like badges of honor—proof of how hard they work, how overextended they are. It’s sheer narcissism! Go ahead and boast about your grueling schedule and all the extraordinary feats you accomplished before I even opened my eyes. I won’t lose any sleep over it. —Mark Joseph Stern

Let Amazon Listen

I didn’t even want the Amazon Echo. My husband did, a few years ago, after he’d played with one at a relative’s house. I flat-out refused. As Slate’s Future Tense editor, I spend an awful lot of time working on alarming stories of technological invasions of privacy—from the government, from corporations, from hackers seeking money or chaos or both, even by accident. I would never pay for the privilege of allowing Amazon to eavesdrop on my home, I said.

Lisa Larson-Walker

Soon after I made that edict, I began to question myself. Who was I to unilaterally declare that he couldn’t have one? How would I feel if he banned something I wanted from the home? So after a few weeks of guilty soul-searching, I gave in—I even purchased it myself and made it a Christmas present.

He soon became a bit freaked out by the Echo, which sat on our kitchen counter, occasionally mistaking a snippet of conversation for its wake-word, “Alexa.” He began turning off the mic regularly. And now I, the person who once spent 20 minutes teaching a preteen nephew how to protect his iPhone from police search, am the one who unmutes it.

My most-used feature is probably the timer. God, I love that timer. To be able to set it while both my hands are busy cooking is miraculous. The doo-doo-da it makes when it goes off is so soothing, I sometimes let it go a little long just so I can keep listening. I also ask Alexa to play NPR One, or tell me the weather. And I truly love using it for music—especially because via Spotify, I can turn on songs while my husband is home alone. (His current feeling on the Alexa: “At this moment I don’t regret it. I just find it kind of annoying and creepy.” I’m doing my best to contribute to the annoying part.)

I understand why so many of the experts and writers I work with are aghast at the idea of trading privacy for these minor conveniences. I’ve heard plenty of people say, “I can’t understand why someone would want that!,” unaware of the Echo-haver in their midst. But there are reasons to want one. The Echo makes my life a little more seamless. Sure, it may someday be used against me in a court of law. That’s a risk that I’m willing to take. —Torie Bosch

Dwell on Your Exes

If the cardinal sin post-breakup is texting your ex, then the runner-up is rereading your old text exchanges. But I do it. I do it when I’m bored, or feeling disenchanted with dating. I open the iMessage app, and scroll all the way to the early back-and-forths with old partners, flopped dates, friends who never knew how much I liked them. I smile at a long-lost inside joke. I skim through coordinating meetups, trading Spotify links, deciding—in the case of, say, a college boyfriend—where we should have dinner with our parents. I eventually near the texts that followed a difficult, real-life conversation, a conflict that will never be resolved. By the time I get to our polite birthday exchanges, my shoulders are scrunched up to my ears.

Lisa Larson-Walker

This compulsion to revisit the past, even for a breakup I’m long over, isn’t healthy. Breakup specialists warn that this habit can “undo a lot of the work you’ve done on healing” and “erode at your self-worth.” Indeed, my nostalgia tours can result in disappointment, painful texts eclipsing sweet ones. It hurts to see someone who was once a daily part of my life (or at least thoughts) reduced to a string of grey bubbles. But unlike the rest of my digital life—social media, photo albums, journal entries—text messages offer a fuller story, one with two sides. There’s no highlight reel to skim through here.

When I emerge from the texts, I feel like I’m exiting the theater after a scary movie. That was the past. My present life feels newly exciting, the possibilities wide-open. I vow to be more direct with my emotions next time, to be kinder, to date people who are open to exclamation marks (like I am!). But I’m also reminded of what I gained, and continue to gain, from falling for people. And so each time a guy and I break things off, I dutifully stash my correspondences away in the attic of my iCloud. Because the chief pleasure of rereading texts is in reliving how a stranger becomes known, and anticipating the moment it could happen again. —Rachael Allen

Don’t Walk—Drive

Driving, I hear, is bad—it pollutes, it clogs up roadways, it kills pedestrians. It’s particularly bad if you live in a city that has its own transportation. Which is why, when I first moved to D.C., I thought owning a car would be a nightmare. I had heard stories about D.C.’s horrific traffic, my parallel parking skills were rusty at best. But I had also spent the previous 20-some years of my life in Midwestern sprawl with inconsistent sidewalks, zero bike lanes, and parking lots galore. Driving was more or less the only transit option I had ever known. So I packed up my Honda Civic and hoped for the best.

Lisa Larson-Walker

Turns out, it was incredibly easy: registration fees are low, I can usually find a parking spot on my block, and D.C.’s public transit system is seemingly always on fire. I drive often, even when it’s nearly as convenient to walk, bike, or take public transit. The only times I won’t drive are when getting behind the wheel would be a headache (during commuting hours, if I’ll be drinking, if I’m going somewhere crowded).

In the decade I’ve live here, D.C. has improved its long-neglected Metro and become substantially more bike-friendly. But I often still drive instead. Grocery shopping? Drive. Dinner with a friend? Gym? Drive. My excuses pile up faster than the miles on my odometer: The weather sucks, the Metro is still unreliable on the weekends, biking makes me sweaty (even in the dead of winter). I buy more groceries than I can carry. I’m always running 15 minutes late. And I have to keep my car anyway—I need it to go hiking, which I do every weekend—so I should at least get my money’s worth.

Yes, I am worried about climate change. I can barely bring myself to read the latest doom-and-gloom article without panicking. And yet, I still drive. I picture Greta giving me side-eye every time I buckle my seat belt and turn the key to go to the Trader Joe’s that is less than a mile away. I realize I’m not the problem, but I also believe every bit counts, which is why I’ve still cut back on my meat consumption and flights. Am I a hypocrite? Yes. But for now, I’ll still be piling my reusable grocery bags into my car. At least I’m not going that far. —Megan Wiegand

Take More Selfies

I once made it my actual New Year’s resolution to take more selfies. Yes, I realize that selfies are seen as the vapid currency of the self-obsessed or, at best, passed off as a shallow form of empowerment. For me, they aren’t quite either. Coming off a major breakup, I hoped focusing my phone camera on myself would make me feel more like the subject of my own life. It basically worked! I snapped photos of myself in restaurant bathrooms, on my commute, out with friends. On one occasion, I selfie’d while flossing my teeth.

Lisa Larson-Walker

I felt sort of vain at first, trying to get the lighting just so. But since I didn’t post the vast majority of my selfies to social media, my thirst for external validation flared up a little less with each picture. I even got over the embarrassment of taking selfies in public, snapping one after an exercise class in Union Square, when my urge to record the moment outweighed my concern of how I’d appear to strangers. I grew fond of even my ugliest selfies, and learned to accept my imperfect self as just me.

The project had an unexpected benefit: I have a comically thorough record of that year, the best since the ’90s, back when my mom chased me around with a point and shoot. In those days I remember being deeply embarrassed anytime she’d ask me to pose in front of a landmark or in a Halloween costume. Stopping the action to record a moment just felt hopelessly square to me: can’t we just REMEMBER that we came here, Mom?

But of course, as an adult I treasure those photo albums. And now, I treasure my selfies. This year, I’m resolving once again to take more, and so should you (one a day is a manageable goal, but you could even do several). Not in the spirit of a self-obsessed millennial, or an influencer crafting a facade, but for your own personal posterity: even in the small moments, even when you’re alone. —Asha Saluja

Go Ahead. Light Up.

A vice is not just something that you know is wrong but do anyway, like ordering a toothbrush from Amazon Prime or driving an SUV. A vice is something that gives you a little rush of living by breaking the rules; something that you sneak off to do, wouldn’t want your kids to find out about, and leaves you feeling both ashamed and also like a slowly disappearing version of yourself that you don’t want to forget. Doing something that is the tiniest bit bad for the planet, or is self-absorbed, or supports big tech, is not a vice. Smoking is.

Lisa Larson-Walker

Smoking—it’s cool, and I do it sometimes. It might seem wrong for me, a mother of three, to advocate for even the rare cigarette on the searchable web. That’s why it’s a vice! But also: The first time I thought of my mom as a person with her own life was when she told me she would occasionally have a drag of her friend’s cigarette at bridge. I remember feeling uncomfortable but also impressed. (Kids: I smoke when Lara comes to town! See me!)

If my husband is reading this, he’s probably choking on the memory of the nicotine gum he once chewed obsessively in order to quit his pack-a-day habit after my incessant nagging. For years after he had “quit,” I would scour social media, looking for pictures of him still grabbing a smoke with his co-workers at the holiday party, zooming in on his hand, squinting to see that little white stick between his fingers. The difference is that I was never addicted to smoking. The other difference is that I judge myself less harshly than I do him. Smiley-face-smoking-a-Marlboro-Light emoji.

The act of inhaling smoke itself is honestly not so enjoyable anymore. It hurts my lungs, makes me a little nauseous, and the smell on my hands afterward is not ideal. Also, it is bad for you. But I refuse to admit I’ve become a person who says smoking is gross. I am committed to maintaining some level of completely outdated ’90s cool and therefore will definitely go grab a smoke with you at a wedding, or outside the restaurant, where, when it was a different restaurant six restaurants ago and life’s possibilities stretched out ahead of us, we used to smoke inside, at the table, between dinner and dessert.

And then I will go home to my plastic straws and my Facebook account, kiss my kids on the forehead, and tell them not to vape. —Allison Benedikt 



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