I Don’t Believe In Labels, And Neither This Chick I’m Boinking Nor My Severe Nut Allergy Can Change That
There’s something that women and food manufacturers just don’t get about me: I’m a free spirit. I don’t subscribe to harmful societal norms by giving things labels like “boyfriend,” “girlfriend,” or “contains tree nuts.”
Once you put a label on something, it creates expectations. Will I have to get Mary a birthday present? Will she want me to go with her to her cousin’s wedding? Will itchy red hives blotch up my face after getting pesto sauce on my pasta? I don’t want to live with those questions constantly hanging over my head.
Look, I like what I’m doing with Mary, and don’t want it to stop, but, also, if I see a cute girl at a coffee shop I want to be able to flirt with her without overthinking it. Just like I want to be able to order any of the baked goods on display without being cautioned that my throat may slowly close up. I just like to be able to let things flow naturally.
I don’t want to let a label inform the dynamics of my relationship with Mary or my medical decisions. Adding labels only complicates things and begs questions like, “Where is this relationship going?” or “Do you have any allergies the chef should be aware of?” Those things are personal, complex, and not something you can just answer on the spot after just six months of casually hanging out with Mary or the perfect Caprese appetizer.
All I want is to continue with the carefree vibe of our relationship until I find someone that could be a long-term partner, and I’m just not yet ready to decide either way with Mary — just like I’m not ready to decide if I should ditch the pistachio cookies sitting in my cupboard, the ones that gave me a rash that still hasn’t gone away. What if a hot girl comes over and I don’t have any other snacks? What if I get really hungry?
If I paid attention to labels, I’d have to do things, like go with Mary to the Taylor Swift concert next weekend when I’d really rather go there with my friends, or stop eating Nutella when I’d really rather keep eating it. I don’t want to get stuck carrying her purse, or my EpiPen, when I could just let my free spirit soar by dipping my hand into a bowl of unlabeled bar snacks and let a night of hitting on chicks, and a visit to the ER, naturally unfold.
