Like taking vitamins, using a condom is one of those things we don’t do because we like to, but because we’re told over and over again that it will keep our bodies safe and healthy. We don’t all agree that doing charity will get us into heaven, or that recycling will save us from global warming, but we all hold the belief that using a condom ensures safe sex. This is why I was in absolute denial the other night when the condom broke during sexy time. I’d felt like I was doing something self-charitable by using protection, but I ended up getting screwed in a different sense of the word than I’d hoped for. Though the breakage happened during the middle of sex and not the grand finale, premature ejaculation is one of my greatest fears — so I decided I’d go to CVS the next day to pick up some Plan B.

’d never taken emergency contraceptives before, so I had no idea what was in store for me. I only knew that I was about to become $49.99 poorer. I had my friend come with me for moral support, and together we drove twenty minutes to the farthest CVS in my internal GPS. The car ride was rowdy and fun as I divulged all the details about how good the sex had been before the condom broke, but as soon as we pulled into the parking lot my confidence left me. My legs wobbled as I walked across the asphalt, which I jokingly attributed to getting pounded the night before, but was actually due to my pounding pulse. The automatic doors swooshed open hitting me with cool air and the cold reality of what I was there to do.

We took a detour through the cosmetics aisle so we could sneakily scan the vicinity for old teachers, friends of my parents, and parents of my friends. Once it was determined that the coast was clear, we hauled ass to the Family Planning aisle. There were no emergency contraceptives to be found, only dozens of boxes of condoms. Trojans, Lifestyles, Durex, lambskin, ribbed, ultra thin, spermicidal, all capable of breaking. We’d once had a good relationship, but now they were nothing more than rubber placebos to me. I was angry at every single one of the boxes, it was their fault I was even here. Now I had to spend fifty bucks because they couldn’t do their job. “I think we have to get it from the pharmacy counter,” my friend said. The Family Planning aisle is nerve-wracking  but at least you can conceal yourself by hiding behind the aisles. The pharmacy counter is like swimming in open water.

There were two men and one woman working at the pharmacy counter. We hung back by the condoms until the woman was available, then made the bold steps up to her register.

“Hi there, how can I help you?” Her name tag read Marilyn and I swear she had the warmest smile I’ve ever seen. She appeared to be in her early 50’s and was petite with dark hair. Behind her round frame glasses were kind eyes that matched her kind smile.

I lowered my voice to promote discretion, “Hi, um, I was wondering if I could get the uh, morning after pill?”

Marilyn immediately got the picture. She lowered her voice to equal the decibel I’d been speaking at and with a small wink said “Oh yes, just one minute.” With that, I exhaled for what felt like the first time since I’d been in the store. Marilyn came back a few moments later with a box of Plan B. Her voice still in a whisper she asked me for my ID and method of payment. I took out my license and debit card but retracted my hand in panic, asking “This won’t show up on my bank statement, right?”

“No, no,” my guardian angel of contraceptives assured me, “only the amount you spend will show up, not the name of the purchase.” She gave me another one of her comforting smiles as she swiped my card and bagged the box. I didn’t even care about the $50 price anymore, I just wanted to jump over the counter and hug her. My sense of trust had been so violated when the condom broke, but Marilyn was proof that there was still good in the world.

She handed me the bag and still in her whisper said, “take care, now.” I hadn’t even taken the pill yet and I already felt better. I was out of my denial and had come to accept the fact that in life plan A doesn’t always work out, and sometimes we need to resort to plan B.

That can’t be her? Is it her?
Yup.
I know Goddess #3.

Her name is Megan Levant, or Princess Megan as she made us call her when she was our Hell Master in college during pledge week. Yes, goddess numero tres is my sorority sister. I wonder if she makes Charlie Sheen call her Princess Megan or if Goddess Megan has taken its place. I also wonder if that makes me Charlie Sheen’s sister in law.

What is there to know about this new insta-lebrity? Well, since Princess Megan has since deactivated her Facebook account (which is tragic because her photos were really entertaining), here are five things to help you get to know the newest goddess a little bit better.

1) She’s from Chicago, and apparently went to catholic school. Which is funny because she’s Jewish. (If she isn’t, then I’m really confused as to why she made us make bar mitzvah cards for her little brother during hell week). I wonder what Sister Mary Something would have to say about her new gig….

2) She went to the University of Wisconsin in Madison. And she had a lot of fun. She was frequently spotted at Bar Time, a late night pit stop before heading to after parties, where she’d often be slurring her words. She also may or may not have fallen one night and knocked out her tooth, though that hasn’t been confirmed. Either way – DUH, WINNING.

3) She’s a twin. (Goddess #4, perhaps?! I’m pretty sure Sheen would find twin goddesses a winning idea.) In college, I only knew her as Megan’s twin Emily (she would come to visit and stay for long periods of time), but she is funny. And she has a blog. A little friendly advice from Levant #2: “EVERYTHING is more fun with copious amounts of drugs.” Noted. And I’m sure Warlock Sheen would concur.

4) She now lives in LA LA land working for a Plastic Surgeon. And no, it doesn’t look like she’s been taking advantage of her employee discount.

5) She was a fabulous mix of crazy trainwreck meets funny and entertaining. I was always a fan of the girl who could laugh at her own expense. She was undoubtedly nuts and took her sister’s “friendly advice” to heart, BUT I always liked Megan Levant. She had moxie. She had chutzpah. And she had fabulous hair. Like the LiLo of UW, you couldn’t help but stare at her and think, “That girl is cray cray.” But you also wanted to be her friend, if only for the sheer entertainment factor she always brought to the table.

Sounds a lot like someone else (who’s body is fueled by tiger blood) we know and love.

The truth is, if we had given out paper plate awards in college, I’m 1,000% certain that I would have been using my crayola markers to create “Most likely to become the third goddess of Charlie Sheen” for my sorority sis. The lesson in all of this? Dreams do come true.

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (some of which include less than stable lofts) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

I consider myself a pretty honest person. I’m no Mother Theresa, but I don’t lie, especially to authority figures and people I need things from. Back in my sophomore year, I didn’t exactly live up to this creed and it came back to kick my butt. Hard.

Let’s go back to fall of my sophomore year, when my biggest problems were which Halloween party to go to and how to convince my boyfriend to dress up as a Disney prince.  After promising baked goods and undergoing a frantic search for final accessories, we were ready to make our rounds to the nearby apartment parties, ready to wow the crowd with our awesome outfits and get lots of Facebook-worthy pictures. I was on my game, almost.

Any of you who have survived a Halloween on a college campus know it is a mess of jungle juice, cheap shots and sloppy, unknown kids crashing your party. It’s a jumble of limbs and scantily clad co-eds who end up lost in the morning. As an experienced Halloween-er I thought that I would be good to go. Unfortunately my Prince Charming was not.

Fast-forward a few hours after we’d left the party and stumbled back to my dorm where we crashed from exhaustion, without enough energy to change out of our ensembles let alone have a little role playing sexy time. Suddenly, I was awoken to the sound of water and sat up to see him “relieving himself” in the corner of my bedroom.

“GO TO THE BATHROOM, CHRIS!” I screamed as I realized what was going on.

“I’m in the bathroom…I’m going…I’m going…” he mumbles, and I quickly drift back asleep.

The next morning, I woke from my slumber, and couldn’t look less like a princess.  After rolling around and moaning for awhile, I finally got out of bed and ran to my laptop, hoping someone has already updated pictures from last night. Only my laptop wouldn’t turn on. And it was sticky. And….OMG is that a puddle on my desk?

And then it all came together.

Chris.
Peeing.
Middle of the night.

ON MY LAPTOP!?

Needless to say, I freaked! Then Chris freaked. Then I freaked some more. I mean, what the hell was I supposed to do without a laptop? AND WHO PEES ON A LAPTOP?

So I did what any college student would do – I cleaned up what I could (wearing gloves, obviously) and made an appointment at the repair center. Nervous and trying to come up with a not-so-embarrassing excuse for my problems, I walked right into the store and held up my computer, hoping the genius could bring it back to life. With a suspicious glance of one who knows, he gingerly opened my laptop and wrinkled his nose. “What happened?” He asked slowly.

“I…spilled lemonade on it!”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew how dumb they sounded. Lemonade? Why? Because it’s yellow? And sticky? Come on, they keyboard didn’t smell like fresh lemons….

The guy lifted the computer, inspecting it, then gave me a knowing look.

“Lemonade…OK. Well, unfortunately the computer is ruined. There’s nothing we can do about this…..lemonade damage.” He nudged it back across the desk, avoiding any direct contact. As I left the shop, dead laptop in a bag, I heard the entire staff bust out in laughter.

I learned my lesson about lying that day, and my boyfriend learned one too when I brought him the bill for a replacement. Halloween, you guys… no one makes it out unscathed.

[You think that's bad? Check out our other cringe-worthy Morning After stories.]

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (though most don't involve a large group of potential sorority sisters) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

Wine is cheap in Europe, super cheap. I made that discovery early on during my semester abroad, and took advantage of it during my spring break in Italy. As all college students know, boxed wine in the States is a great invention which allows for portable drinking, but this idea has been one-upped in Europe, with the creation of what my friends and I would lovingly refer to as “wine boxes.” One liter of “table” (ie. awful) wine in a pouch, with an oh-so convenient pop tab opening which allows you to reseal your wine and take it on the go! They’re adult juice boxes, with alarming consequences I would eventually realize.

One night, my friends and I decided to have an adventure and escape the stuffy hostel. Needless to say, we brought along our wine boxes, now complete with bendy straws to make our drinking experience that. much. easier. College students really do have drive and creativity when it comes to protecting their laziness.

I was feeling great after a meal of pasta and boxed wine. Maybe a little too great, since those straws are the last thing I remember until I was awoken by the bright rays of sun that only a hangover can truly appreciate. Looking over at my friends, I saw their shocked faces, and my stomach sank. Looking down I see that my new Roma tee shirt, that I had decided to wear to bed, was soaked in red wine. In fact, the entire bed was soaked in table wine. I glanced at the floor and saw the culprit: a large wine box was lying crushed in a pool. In my drunken stupor the night before, I had sat on my beloved wine box, that I had hastily left on my bed, consequently ruining the sheets, my new favorite souvenir t-shirt, and ensuring that I would never see my security deposit.

Think that’s bad? Throw in a broken phone, (who knows how?) a mega hangover that brought tears to my eyes, and a flight to Amsterdam leaving in an hour, having not yet packed. How I made it alive, I’ll never know, but that was the day I officially retired from wine boxes.

[You think that's bad? Check out our other cringe-worthy Morning After stories.]

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (though most don't involve a Harry Potter references?) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

It was my first night of freshman year. After my parents finished helping me unpack and hugged me goodbye, I had only one thing on my mind: to get drunk that night. What can I say? I happen to attend one of the schools that consistently makes the Princeton Review’s list of biggest party schools every year (OU, Oh YEAH!) and I had high expectations for my first night out and about. Also, unlike my fellow freshmen, I knew some older kids from high school and had a solid invite to house party. Score.

In honor of the occasion, I insisted that my new roommate and I start the night by taking shots of 140 proof absinthe I’d smuggled back from Europe. Needless to say, we were both pretty trashed before we’d even left the dorm. Not that that fact stopped us from downing the endless cans of Keystone Light that were handed to us throughout the night.

As we left the party, trashed beyond all measures, myself already having broken my shoes, neither of us was looking forward to the trek home. Luckily, one of my guy friends from high school offered to walk us back. He claimed he wanted to make sure we got home safely, but he didn’t do much to help as I fell flat on my back in the middle of the sidewalk.

But it wasn’t until we got back to the dorm that the real trouble started.

During the move, my dad methodically set up my new loft bed so that my roommate and I would have more room in our absolutely tiny dorm room. I thought it was a great idea at the time….until I realized the difficulty in climbing into bed after a few (or far more than a few) cocktails.

Flash forward to my roommate pushing my butt up the ladder as I grabbed the frame of my bed to pull my drunk ass up. I didn’t know at the time, but the frame wasn’t secured to the loft, just heavy and set on top of it with the mattress on it. I somehow managed to dislodge it and the entire loft came crashing down on us. Instead of freaking out/calling for help/doing anything at all, my roommate simply got into her own bed as I tried, by myself, to push my loft back to a point where I could sleep on it.

Eventually I gave up, pulled my blankets onto the ground and made a nest for myself. The next morning, after waking up and reliving the entire evening via my roommate’s hazy memory, we got a few boys from the hall to help us put the loft back together. (Great ice breaker!) Then I spent the next few weeks working tirelessly to master the art of getting into that loft while drunk. It took some time and a few more late night spills, but I finally got the hang of it sometime near Thanksgiving.

Looking back, it’s hard to believe 1) that this all happened on my first night of college, 2) that I survived my night of college, and 3) that my roommate and I actually became best friends. But it did, I did and we did. And for that, I. love. college.

[A special thanks to our anonymous reader for submitting this hilarious and horrifying tale. Want more? Check out our other cringe-worthy Morning After stories.]

Everyone says your first time should be with someone you love. Well, here’s something “everyone” didn’t tell you: just because you lose it with someone you love doesn’t mean you won’t regret it. I certainly do. While I loved Sam very much, it was not at all the right time. When I look back on it, I don’t have a pleasant memory.

I had a really tumultuous relationship with Sam for about six years on and off at the time, which probably was a red flag to begin with. But I was young and in love, and he was “the one.” The timing with us was always wrong. We’d both be seeing other people, but always gravitated back to each other regardless. We would stay up all night on the phone, bitching to each other about anything and everything.

One night we were talking, and the topic of sex came up. He was curious, I think, if I had slept with someone. I was shocked that Sam would even propose the idea that I would lose it to someone other than him. He was relieved; “Good because I love you, and I want to have that experience with you.” That’s funny because he wasn’t a virgin. He had actually lost it to my ex-best-friend, but that’s a whole other story that we won’t get into now.

Then something terrible happened: one of my best friends ended up in the hospital with a fractured skull and was put in a medical induced coma. I was a complete mess, but Sam was there for me. He always answered my calls, no matter what time it was. He comforted me and let me know that it was going to be okay. But it wasn’t. My friend died a week later. When I found out, I immediately called Sam. I worked with my family on the weekends and my mom didn’t want me to drive home myself, so he came to pick me up. I remember sitting on the curb, bawling my eyes out when he pulled up. I got in the car, put my head in his lap, and cried while he drove to my house.

He carried me into my room and sat on my bed, but I felt sick and decided to take a shower. I think I stood there for half an hour just in complete shock. I didn’t know really what was going on. I put on my towel wrap, moseyed back into my room, and curled up next to Sam. I felt safe. He kissed my forehead, then my nose, then my lips, and before I knew it, we were having sex. I don’t even really remember it because I was so mentally removed from the situation.

He stayed with me that night, which was nice I suppose, but then I didn’t hear from him for a month. I had just lost a dear friend, my virginity, and Sam. Eventually, we talked and moved on, and even dated for two more years. It was not at all what I had wanted, but it happened. I couldn’t change it, I had to move forward, and I did. But still, I wish I had been strong enough that night to say something. To not get caught up in the moment. To take that moment and that act more seriously.

While I regret the way it happened, I don’t regret who it was with. I loved Sam, and he was the right person. I just wish I had waited for the right time as well.

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (though most don't involve a large group of potential sorority sisters) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

It’s safe to say that my New Year’s Eve celebration got way out of control this year.

This year my college friends and I decided to go all out for the night. It’s our last year of college and we barely even talk to our home friends anymore, so it made perfect sense that we have a mid-break reunion in the big city. One of my friend’s aunt lives in NYC and she offered up her apartment for the weekend while she was away skiing with her family.

While we spent hours online figuring out travel arrangements and outfit choices, we never got around to actually planning our night. So when the clock start ticking on the 31st we had to go with the only thing we knew was actually happening. A friend of a friend of a cousin of a roommate of a Craigslist killer of a friend was throwing a party in his apartment and told us we were more than welcome to come. We’ve watched Sex and the City so we thought we knew what we were in for — a gorgeous, spacious apartment overflowing with booze and horny well-dressed men.

But when we got there, we immediately realized that we were completely wrong. The apartment was the size of my closet and all the glamorous guests (all 5 of them) were sitting on the couch ripping shots of Barton’s vodka. With our heels and clutches and booze-ready bodies ready to go, we realized that we had made a big mistake. So we did what any classy ladies would do. Took several shots extremely quickly and bounced. It was rude and uncouth and I would be embarrassed if that was the only that that happened during the entire night.

It wasn’t.

We got into a cab and told the driver to take us to his favorite bar in the city. He dropped us off on a sketchy street filled with dive bars and grunge music. Without any other options, we chose one randomly, went in, and start pounding back more drinks. My camera tells me I hooked up at midnight. My memory tells me he said he was 23. My friends tell me he very clearly said he was 33.

Next thing I remember is the bartender being all over me. I do, very unfortunatley, remember loving it. I felt chic and cool and so worldly getting all my friends free shots while the bartender and I played kissy face.

Then like a flash (yeah my memory is in flashes at this point) the bartender took me into the back of the bar, out of my friends’ eyesight, and made me touch his penis. Even in my drunken state I knew I didn’t want to do this so I pushed him away — and proceed to projectile vomit all over him and the bar. He went from lovey-dovey to “get out of my bar!” faster than I could round-up my friends and explain what happened.

We jumped into a cab and didn’t get more than a few blocks before my friend start yakking all over the  backseat. Luckily the driver only charged us A MILLION DOLLARS for the ride to get it cleaned up.

Thinking that all the excitement and disgusting behavior was done for the night, we got into our pajamas, and went to bed. As I drifted to sleep, I could hear my friend, sleeping upright in a chair” making weird “tsk” noises in her sleep. Precious, I thought.

Woke up the next morning and realized that those “tsk” noises were actually “I’m throwing up everywhere in this room” noises. There was barf everywhere. Beds, couch, chairs, wall. It was a disaster. And my friend who’s aunt lived there started (understandably) freaking out.

Without any other options but to get to work, we raided the cleaning closet and scrubbed the room down for hours. When we were done, it looked almost like new, and it seemed like a Febreeze factory. And this was all while I was completely hungover. And too broke (thank you cab fare) to even get breakfast.

Hands down, worst night of my life.

[You think that's bad? Check out our other cringe-worthy Morning After stories.]

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (though some are WAY worse than others) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

By now you’re almost half way through Winter Break. You’ve got the major holidays behind you- Christmas eve, Christmas day, New Year’s- and that means pretty much all scenarios involving getting drunk with your family have expired. How’d you do? Make it through with minimal blows to your self-respect, pride, and squeaky-clean image?

If you’re like me and live in a house of crazy, you hit the bottle. Hard. And so did your mother, father, nineteen year-old sister, great aunt, bizarre gay uncle, both grandparents, and that random cousin you think is hot (but he’s only like…a third cousin through a second marriage, so it’s okay).

I suppose this submission isn’t so much a “Morning After” as it is a “Week After,” because let me tell you, the occasions on which I embarrassed myself this holiday season were hardly contained to one evening. Sure I could pick one moment to elaborate on, like when my mother explained to her sisters that all the nice boys at school were so interested in me. Of course I had to open my mouth (full of wine-stained teeth) to correct her. The “nice boys” are only interested in one thing. And I just happen to do that one thing really, really well. Then, naturally, I thanked her for giving me so many popsicles as a kid because I sincerely believe that’s where I get my technique.

I could also tell you about how I referred to the lemon curd as “funky jizz” or told grandma she shouldn’t be having sex now that her hip is acting up. But those are mild slips of the drunk tongue.

I might enlighten you on how I cried as I held my baby nephew because, and I quote, “I just wanna baby! Men don’t want me, lesbians probably don’t want me. Should I adopt? No, no. They’ll say I’m a deadbeat mom in the making. And so I’ll end up forty and alone. Single. So single. And I can’t even have cats because I’m allergic! The cats don’t even love me! Ohmigod what am I going to do!?” But I won’t tell you about that because I was slurring and I might have spilled my wine onto the baby’s lap…and that just reflects poorly on me.

How about when I tried to make out with the aforementioned hot not-through-blood cousin? Yeah, you’re not getting that one out of me.

Needless to say, 2011 is welcoming me with AA meetings, family counseling, and a bevy of apology notes. Hope you fared at least a little better. Happy New Year!

[You think that's bad? Check out our other cringe-worthy Morning After stories.]

[Everyone’s got a morning after story (though most don't involve a large group of potential sorority sisters) and we wanna hear yours! Send it over to us and we’ll post it – anonymously, of course – right here!]

I had the busiest semester ever in my college career because some genius (read: my idiot self) decided it was a good idea to take 18 hours.  And work.  And hold an officer position in my sorority.  Terrible idea in hindsight.

So needless to say, I rarely went out due to my hectic schedule.  Plus whenever I got home at the end of the day or when I had spare time, I wanted to spend it doing nothing and sleeping.  The weekends were a prime opportunity to rest for half a day before I had to start doing homework and writing papers for my classes.  But those few times I managed to go out, I made it count.  I really made it count.  Especially at my sorority’s last hurrah, the Tacky Christmas party.

If you don’t know what Tacky Christmas is then shame on you.  Basically everyone wears tacky sweaters that your grandma made you or wrapping paper dresses, or if you don’t celebrate Christmas, you put a Menorah crafted from pipe cleaners on your head.  I opted for a gigantic gift bag from Target, while my ex dressed up as a little kid on Christmas.  Oh yeah, did I mention I took my ex as my date?  Well, I did.  Don’t judge me.

Anyway, I figured as it was my last night out with my friends before finals, I should make the most of it.  The ex and I arrived at a pre-game that evolved into a full blown rager before we even made it to the bar.  Not only did I take an unknown number of peppermint patty shots (soooo good!), but I also finished a bottle of crappy champagne by myself.  I weigh 100 pounds, and hardly drank this semester.  You do the math.

We eventually got everyone to migrate to the bar, which was a terribly difficult task since we were having much more fun at the pre-party.  I was expecting to get big black X’s on my hands that night, but one of my friends happened to be working the door at the bar and gave beautiful, shiny wristbands to my ex and I.  Well, I successfully closed my tab after one beer.  See that?  I was responsible.  But then I stole the ex’s pitcher and drank half of it.

I don’t remember dancing on stage with the rapper.  Or grinding in my gift bag.  Or going home.  But from what I was told here’s what happened:

The ex drove me home and was going to stay with me to make sure I saw the next day (so sweet).   When we got to my apartment complex, I decided that I didn’t live on the first floor and ran away.  I hid under a stairwell for about ten minutes, and then I continued my adventure up to the third floor where two random guys were cheering me on as the ex chased me down.  Finally, he managed to catch me and carry me back to my apartment.  My roommate was still awake, which was good because I did everything she said and refused to listen to the ex.

After getting me into my pajamas, they tried to give me water.

me: “NO! It’s a Horcrux!”

ex: “What?!”

me: “It’s a Horcrux! You have to destroy it! Unless you’re Lord Voldemort…”

ex: “Babe, it’s not a Horcrux. Drink your water.”

me: “Obliviate!”

I don’t remember this conversation but since two out of three people do, I’ll accept it.  Apparently I continued to cast spells and begged for my roommate’s wand.  She decided I’d poke my eye out and told me it was at Olivander’s for repairs.  I was very upset about that.

Eventually, I got sick, drank the Horcrux water after it was destroyed, went to sleep, and had wonderful dreams that I was Harry Potter.

[You think that's bad? Check out our other cringe-worthy Morning After stories.]

I am in the most amazing, secure and satisfying relationship I have ever been in but there is just one so-called “problem”; after nearly a year and a half, neither of us have said, “I love you.”

Now I know what this probably sounds like to some, or possibly even most, of you. (Believe me, I see it in the facial expressions of concerned friends and hear it in the tone of their strongly worded reactions.) There is obviously a clear issue here, right? Well, actually, I’m not so sure.

Now, to be honest, I would be lying if I didn’t admit that part of me (the part that sometimes, uncontrollably slips into this cliché, fairytale, chick flick inspired way of thinking that all love stories have basically 1 of 3 plots) at times wishes one of us would just find the courage to come out and say it already. I mean, it’s been long enough! And the pressure from friends and family who act like this is the biggest thing in the world to be concerned about, only adds fuel to this flame.

However, my usual, more sane, more rational and level-headed reaction to all of this is, “Who really cares?” Is actually saying that phrase really as significant or necessary as everyone our age makes it out to be? I mean, isn’t it true that actions should speak louder than words?

We are currently in a world where nearly every word in the “relationship dictionary” is rapidly being redefined. Take the word, meaning and supposed “sacredness” of marriage, for instance. It’s being entirely altered by things like the exceptionally high divorce rate (and the never ending publicity about celebrity divorces and adultery in the press). Or what about the many different names have we come up with in the last decade to define the new, modern, complicated relationships that keep arising: open relationship, no strings attached, friends with benefits, just hooking up… the list continues. Who even knows what the proper meaning and context of monogamy and love is these days.

It seems silly that no one would take a step back from all this to take the time to redefine the word love in its modern sense. I mean, I don’t think it’s necessarily unreasonable to think that with everything that’s going on in today’s world it’s practically inevitable that the word and definition of love is taking on a very different meaning as well. But it doesn’t seem people view it that way. It is still constantly being used, seen and heard by everyone, everywhere: in the songs on the radio, on television, in movies, and in real life, of course. I find it troubling when everyone throws the “L-word” out there so quickly and carelessly in their relationships; it makes it hard to take the word seriously anymore.

I think young people need to wake up and realize we’re not in high school anymore. Love should no longer mean the same trivial thing as it did then, a time when I too used the word so frequently and freely in all my silly little relationships. I’m no longer calling my boyfriend at all hours of the night, trying to convince him to sneak out to be with me or sending him passive aggressive texts about his rude and standoffish behavior. Instead, there is respect, trust, mutual understanding. It is obvious that we care a great deal about each other. I’m not sure I’m ready, or that it is necessary, to use the word love so loosely as I have in the past. I don’t need it in order to feel closer to him or to try and make our relationship stronger or more serious. I am completely satisfied with where we are in all those areas. So, if it is as monumental of a word as everyone makes out to be, then I don’t think it’s wrong to assume that choosing to wait a long time in order to exchange these precious words with your significant other—choosing to not make that substantial of a promise and commitment so quickly and easily—may not be such a bad thing. Perhaps it could even be considered advisable to some.

So help try and clarify something for me here; I must be missing something. Does using and exchanging this phrase help to somehow legitimize the relationship to both the participating members and its observers? And if so, why? Should that really be the case?