I imagine the guy in the featured image of this post is wearing a party hat, not a dunce cap.
I wish there were two separate words for immediate family and extended family without having to call them both “family.” My grandmother once sat down with a pen and paper and counted over 100 cousins, stretching into second-, third-, and fourth- categories and even organizing them by twice-removed and so on. Are they all “family,” to me, too? Even though I’ve never met them?
I’ve never found “family” to be a value of much importance. I love my family, sure, and I’m lucky to have a decent one. But do I love that extended family?
Only out of principle, and therein the problem lies. It’s a fact that I don’t know my family well out of the essentials, and yet I am obligated to say I love them.
I’ve mentioned before that we need different words for romantic, familial, platonic, and objective love. Perhaps if we redefined “love” and “family” I wouldn’t even be having this problem.
This is all stemming out of me having to spend the Fourth of July with a section of my extended family.
Why? Why do we force ourselves to socialize with people we don’t like? Why do we lie about liking them?
Ugh. I’ve been in a pretty bleh mood lately. Pretty pessimistic. The problem when I get in these pessimistic ruts is that pessimism is the most realistic way of thinking.