Graham and I were introduced by someone who was, at the time, a mutual friend. Other than that person, we didn’t have any friends in common, at least, not that we knew of. We eventually learned that Stephanie knew Courtney and Jen and worked with Vern and that, because this is St. Louis, we kind of knew people who knew one another, but mostly, Graham and I dating was two completely separate friend groups that still haven’t really come together.

Which is fine. I like my friends to like each other and I know that I’m now friends with his friends and he is friends with mine, but when you think about breaking up and all the logistical nightmares surrounding it, I’d rather the friends custody issues mostly work themselves out based on who came into this relationship with whom.

Because of this, I’ve only dated outside my group of friends. It’s an easier, cleaner breakup when that part comes around. Also, I can see how it can be difficult to get into my group of friends, not because they’re bad people or hard to get along with, but because this core group has known one another since at least high school, and in some cases, kindergarten. I was never worried about Graham fitting in with my friends – he’s easy to like and so are they – but in the beginning, I wondered how long it would take for everyone to feel totally comfortable around one another. The moment it happened went like this:

Graham, myself, and a group of my friends were at a house party. One of my friends’ now former girlfriend had brought some friends of her own, most of whom were younger, dumber, and more fond of gossiping amongst themselves in a corner than we’d have liked. At the time, Graham had a 6-inch blue mohawk that stood without the aid of hair product, which is the prime benefit of having a Jewfro.

Scene: Graham is standing next to Adrian and Jake. Probably they are sharing bourbon. One of the friends-of-my-friend’s-now-former-girlfriend approaches Graham.

Girl, looking up at Graham’s mohawk: Why do you have a mohawk instead of a fauxhawk?

Graham, looking down at girl: Because I’m not a fucking pussy.

Adrian and Jake: HEEEEEEEEEEEEEE (or manlier variant).

Adrian and Jake later told me that this is the moment they decided they very much liked Graham. He wasn’t rude or standoffish, but he let this girl know in no uncertain terms that a) her question was stupid and b) he was not a fucking pussy. Both of which were and are accurate things. “Because I’m not a fucking pussy” has reached a kind of life motto status when one of us is faced with a similar question, and lately, this question has been whether or not Graham and I are scared to move to Seattle.

No. We are not scared to move. Because we’re not fucking pussies. While I appreciate everyone’s concern, I think the question is kind of lame, mostly because the people asking it aren’t really asking if we’re scared, they’re saying that they would be scared to do the same thing, and that possibly the only reason they haven’t done something similar or maybe something they really wanted to do is because they were scared, and that being scared is a legitimate reason for not doing it.

And you know what? I’m not a fucking pussy. I’m not content to sit around St. Louis for another year, two years, ten years, etc., wondering why I didn’t just go when I really wanted to and coming up with a thousand excuses about why my fear was valid. Because it’s not. I’m not an impulsive person (well, I was once, but that made I get married and I trust me, I learned my lesson). I don’t make rash decisions. I think. I plan. I save. I form my reasons and I know them inside and out and fear doesn’t even enter the picture anymore because I’m thirty years old and an independent fucking adult and I can do whatever I want to do. Isn’t that amazing? Isn’t it revolutionary? Can you imagine what you’d be capable of doing if you just decided to not afraid of everything all the time?

Like I said, I appreciate the concern. But you don’t have to ask me questions like that anymore. No, I’m not scared. No, it doesn’t rain all the time. Of course I’ll give my employer notice in due time per my contract. No, it’s not your responsibility to do that for me (or Graham, or anyone, so please keep your mouth shut about it). Don’t be such a fucking pussy.