Dear U Up, Who Will Take Care of Childless Millennials?

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Read what U Up had to say about your burning relationship questions this month

Q. Geriatric 24 y/o: What is going to happen to millennials who didn’t have kids when they get older? Who will take care of them?

A: Frankly, they’ll probably thrive and look and feel awesome. They will have lived an entire life unfettered by the pressures of parenting. They wont have to stress out about their kid hanging out with the neighborhood weirdo, whether vaccinations will make said kid good at math, or deciding between that sick fender they’ve always wanted or a mediocre trip to Disneyland. No Dinonugget lunches or wondering, as they digest an entire leftover Peppa Pig birthday cake, what could have happened if their college band “The Classic Fold” stayed together after graduation and Marissa never took that internship in Copenhagen. Just good credit, a flat stomach and Marissa.

But even still, these millennials will wake up one day and be 80. This is a very unsexy answer for a column partially devoted to talking about sex, but at that point, hired elderly care services will probably come in handy. Due to a longer average life expectancy and the aging of a large Baby Boomer population, the home health aid industry is the fastest growing in the United States according to this source, this source and this source. I can see the trend likely following suit for the millennial generation. Alternative answers: your Roomba, your childhood best friend Shawnie, you will no longer have a body thanks to Elon Musk.

Q. Love virgin: I’ve never been in love with anyone and was wondering if you could tell me what it’s like. Do you love someone in the same way I love the Taco Bell Double Decker Crunchwrap Supreme? 

A. I can. But first, an overture:

 Imagine an apple. A bright, fat, juicy green apple. It’s resting atop a sarcophagus adorned with inscriptions belonging to some strange, intelligent civilization. Sitting cross-legged around the tomb is everyone you’ve once held in your arms. You pick up the apple, and bite into it, the flesh giving way to the sweetest elixir that’s ever kissed your lips. You pass the apple around in silence to your cadre of lovers—present, past and future—with the tacit understanding that it would be a sin to keep any human being from experiencing its life-affirming graces. You patiently await the return of the enigmatic fruit, knowing, but not fearing, that this is an impossibility. You pass the time by gazing contentedly at the lovers merrily dancing, smiling and clapping without abandon and—wait, what is that, nay, WHO is that figure emerging from the forest, shrouded in a fog. Could it be? It is. World famous Emmy-award-winning actor and two-time-shortlister for Essence Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive award, Idris Elba. He stands on the far side of the clearing, the tear drops of cherubs refracting beams of sunlight off of his muscular frame. The clearing is now filled with the Platonic ideal of every color: red, yellow, orange, green, blue, violet…every imaginable color, and even some shades that cannot be adequately described within the limits of human language. “God must have been a painter” is all you can manage to whisper as you hold back tears of your own.

You run to him and he to you. He catches you effortlessly with one arm as you leap into the warm caverns of his barrel chest. You inhale. Just as you expected: Downy. He is a fabric softener kind of guy. With his other arm, he reaches up and removes his face, revealing an overwhelmingly bright blue light radiating underneath, a portal to another dimension. The fog immediately lifts and evaporates into a blue and cloudless sky. The lovers fall to the ground and giggle as they make snow angles out of the rose petals that now cushion the entire field. Everyone enters a period of intense orgy—based lovemaking. The forest trees reverberate with the sound of uninhibited pleasure. You climax several times in ways heretofore unfathomable. A sunflower opens in your stomach. You disintegrate and return to oneness with MotherEarth. She is pregnant for the fourth time with cosmic potentiality. You enter infinite time-space. The cry of a baby snaps you back into the present moment. You are the baby! But for a brief moment, before you exit the birth canal and start life anew you are filled with a lucid understanding of infinite wisdom and the tender affection of millennia of lovers. Entire civilizations rise and fall as you chuckle inwardly at the deceptive illusions of “time” and “individual bodies.” You smirk at the unbearable lightness of existence. Everything was love all along. Just love.

A big round of applause if you’re still reading. I’ve been smoking too much weed and watching too many Lynch movies this weekend and needed that release. This is also a really tough question to answer and that was my really elaborate and roundabout way of procrastinating.

The feeling of being in love with someone is an entirely subjective experience that changes based on the phase of your relationship, external factors affecting both of your lives, and how hungry you are when someone asks you.

Taking all of that into account, the feeling of being in love I am presently experiencing tonight is pretty freaking awesome. Even if you are physically alone, you never really feel alone. When you think of that person, you have an intuition—that can’t really be intellectualized but I’ll try —that despite everything else that might be wrong or feel wrong in your life, despite whether you feel behind, or not good enough, or fearful, or regretful, or in the wrong city with the wrong career, when it comes to this person, you are right where you should be. It feels like home. It feels like what home felt like when you were a kid—comforting, honest, safe— a place to be yourself, and play, and talk in funny voices, and say wacky things and dream big wacky dreams out loud without the fear of being stupid, or shameful, or not being enough. And then you get to be that home for that person. And it feels like a fucking honor.

This can all look kind of grotesque, though. Hypothetically speaking, here are some snapshots of what it might be like to be in love—the good, the bad and the ugly:

  • Shushing and petting each other’s muscle twitches like they are wild stallions
  • Making fart-pods out of each other’s beds after you cook and share a delicious and nutritious legume-based dinner
  • Listening to each other’s objectively boring dreams but nodding periodically to let the other know you’re still listening even though nobody is fucking, you aren’t in it, and you’d rather be screaming into a pillow
  • Driving your partner to the hospital at 6 a.m. when they’ve been up all night agonizing while reading WebMD, convinced that they have mouth, nose and throat cancer but it’s actually just a blueberry skin stuck to the side of their cheek
  • Functioning as each other’s furniture (person as human gravity blanket, person as human reading chair, person’s stomach as Mooshi pillow etc.)
  • Wondering “oh my god is this the only person I’m going to fuck for the rest of my life?” as you watch your partner use their pubes as a loofa in the shower
  • Smushing a soft-serve McDonald’s ice cream cone in ritual combat in the face of someone who is online-bullying your loved one on NBA-related Reddit forums
  • Going to both Thanksgivings and keeping your cool when a weird uncle who is an ex-cop starts yelling about the dangers of butt chugging and the infinite grace of God
  • Getting in a yelling fight about the kid’s initials from “There Will Be Blood” and both being wrong
  • Looking at each other and understanding/sharing the overwhelming desire to eat a really dear dear dear loved one
  • Nodding in supportive approval when your partner brags about a really nicely worded work email they just sent to Kath in HR
  • Day dreaming about the next step in your lives together, and how to express your love for them in a more sophisticated way than smothering them with your entire body at any given chance

Q. Funky junk: How many testicles is too many?

A. Testicles are a social construct. But three.

 

“U Up?” is a bi-weekly (but sometimes more like bi-monthly) love and relationship advice column by Liz Zarka. Submit anonymous inquiries here

U Up?

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Man Ray,  Meret Oppenheim nude, 1930′s

Ladies and gentlemen, you didn’t ask for it, but here it is anyways, a new love advice column called “U Up?”. The alternatives were “Liz the Love Wiz” or “Zarka for the Heartka” so put it all into perspective.

As a person who has: dated a Creationist; thought she had oral herpes but it was actually just adult acne; ceremonially married a dentist at a Berlin night club; made out with a pro hand farter before he was famous; had her breasts likened to persimmons by a person with an eyebrow piercing that was never not infected*, and reads the DSM-IV for sport, I feel that I am uniquely qualified for this position.  

That’s right, like anyone who dabbled in college theater, I’ve been to the rodeo, gotten lost at the rodeo, and asked for directions at the rodeo more than once. The rodeo was supposed to be a metaphor for sex and sexual identity, but I’m not sure it’s working. What i’m trying to say is that I have had sex at least once, and know some very adventurous and silly people who have ALSO had it. 

But even cowgirls get the blues. This sleepy betty is ready to hang up her spurs, settle down, and try her luck at tackling the tough subjects–the anything and everything around relationships, love and sex. Things like:

  • pregnancy scares
  • hooking up with a friend
  • thruples
  • vagina smells
  • sex work
  • being married to a dentist
  • getting aroused by a particularly voluptuous tomato
  • having a crush on your cousin
  • STDs
  • you know, normal stuff! 

Feel free to post your inquiries here, anonymously or otherwise, or send them to elizabethzarka@gmail.com. I’ll be answering them weekly, bi-weekly, or something like that. Tune in later to see what unfolds!

*On the record, my boobs are normal boob shape. Ask anyone with a Snapchat. 

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