Miss Ashley Pants

So, Orange Is The New Black creator, Lauren Morelli, dumped her hubby.

After a sudden Sapphic epiphany.

And now she’s dating an actress on the show.

(To be fair, even straight girls wanna date Poussey. It’s like when Katherine Moennig played “Shane” on Showtime. It’s not the sex – it’ s the X-factor.)

Ya know, this is the stupid thing about labels.

When I was queef deep in marathon sessions of that “L Word” show, my whole world was WEHO and falling in love with every woman who showed me the least bit of attention. I didn’t swear off dudes, because I learned that I didn’t need to try and place myself somewhere on a sexual venn diagram. We like what we like. We fall in like or love or simpatico or whatever you wanna call it – with whoever we do. And that’s fantastic.

The drawback is how the first evil thing our brain does to us is demand a label.

As adults, sometimes it seems like the line between appreciating any of our dynamics – and sex – blurs. I suppose that that line blurs because of those labels that jump in and ask the question that ruins Christmas for any transcendent experience – be it spirituality or falling in love: “What does this mean? What does it mean I am?”

So what are these labels? And why do we need them? Who’s approval does love require?

I suppose what sits uncomfortably with me is the other “label” aspect to this tale:

The marriage bit.

I personally cringe at the thought of ever being married because it’s a label that seems like a death sentence. Death of independence. Death of not being held accountable. Death of possibility. I’m human and my interests change. What if our interests diverge in a year or five? I’ve then made a vow to only ever be with you and our miniature me’s. Maybe I just have yet to grow up and see the benefit and necessity of it. But apparently, so do most of the people who get lost in the hype and actually wrap that label ’round their finger – only to throw up the two neighboring it in no time.

I have to wonder what the marriage vows looked like.

For those who cross the marital event horizon threshold with their lover in arms, do they just take the promise lightly? Is it like making amphetamine induced plans to travel to Europe in the morning with someone you just met at a party – and then realizing when the sun rises and the high drops, how stupid you sounded? Or are those reservations there the whole time of a future-self being able to just say “sorry-not-sorry!”?

Regardless of what’s between their legs, vow breaking for a new toy seems kinda crappy.

But I can’t judge this specific sitch because it’s not me.

Fortunately, I’ll never go through that “realize I’m a lesbian” crisis because my take has for a long while been and remains one of falling in love with the essence, not the genitals. I’m lucky. So, I suppose I’ve got to feel some sort of compassion for those who feel gypped of something their parents or religion (or whatever other things I never gave much credence to past the age of 15) told them was wrong and to feel guilty about – after they’ve made a binding decision based on a lie they believed about what they had to do.

Then again, this might all be a huge publicity stunt.

Especially since this season’s Orange sucks worse than that orange Jersey kids show.

As for me, my vows are like Ronnie or Ricky or whoever he is here.

Go with the flow. Tao. Wu-wei. Whatever you wanna call it.

I promise to luff you all till this day do us part. We’ll worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.