I’m not a Swiftie. I don’t own a single friendship bracelet, concert merch or a ticket stub from her “Eras Tour” movie.
But I know everything about Taylor Swift and her now official boyfriend, Kansas City Chiefs player Travis Kelce.
Well, saying I know “everything” might be stretching it a bit. But I certainly know way more than I should about the love life of two 30-somethings I’ve never met.
And now, I’m deeply invested in this must-see-NFL-TV romance.
They were on “Saturday Night Live” together, swoon! He helped her from the car like a true gentleman! They even held hands! And omg, his hand is larger than hers! Finally, Taylor has security in a relationship! Not some manboy like the other guys she dated, every one of whom I have never laid eyes on and could not name if I wanted to.
Still, I hope this romance never ends because then I will have to peel my eyes from the VIP box of practically any and every NFL stadium to look at what exactly?
The news is nauseating of late. It was a cruel summer, and so far fall is not an improvement.
I’d rather be trapped in my lavender haze.
After all, who says we must digest every ounce of sadness and death and destruction that the world sees fit to force down our throats? Or that we must choose between baby beheadings and baby bombings?
I cannot. I choose neither.
My inner being has no space available to process the darkness of these days. I don’t need to see any more examples of man’s brutality and inhumanity to further harden my already rocky sense of place in this world.
This does not mean that I do not care. But there is no statement that I or anyone can make that will ease the pain of global madness. There are no words strong enough. No sympathies deep enough. No screams loud enough. No video clear enough.
I choose peace over war, realizing that it is not always up to us when others choose to wage war against our desire for restfulness.
Yet there must remain space for middle ground.
Obviously, there is no way to be a little bit racist or a smidge antisemitic. In the same way, there is no such thing as a tiny bit terrorist — you either are or you are not. These are the hard lines and they must be drawn in every circumstance where they apply.
Other concepts introduce a sliver of doubt and uncertainty. When a country is brutally attacked, is it required to respond with only proportional force? Can a nation wage war against 2 million people, many under 18, who have no organized army, air force or navy? And is that still called war, or is it simply revenge? If a terrorist group becomes the head of a region through force, are citizens then responsible for whatever that group perpetrates in their name? Are they responsible for their own deaths even? Are overwhelming civilian casualties an acceptable price to pay for what is sure to be only a glimmer of peace?
These are the questions that reduce clarity of the moment and the path ahead. I have no answers — and I imagine the ones I would receive depend heavily upon who is asked.
Americans are going to be asked to give deeply even before we have any answers. President Joe Biden is expected to seek about $85 billion from Congress to help both Israel and Ukraine, with the majority of the funds slated for the latter nation’s ongoing battle against Russia. I understand that it is an investment in maintaining our place as a powerful leader on the global stage, as well as our national security interests.
I also understand that the rate of child poverty in America doubled last year to over 12%. And that the average U.S. homebuyer needs to earn about $40,000 more than the median household income to afford a house, according to Redfin. Despite some COVID-19 pandemic improvements, nearly 30 million Americans remain without health care insurance.
This we cannot simply shake off.
What Americans already face is a massive crater of debt, disruption and discord that threatens to swallow us whole both here and abroad.
For my own sanity, I choose to fill that blank space with Travis’ and Taylor’s presumed love story, remotely aware that it too may lead to heartbreak and bad blood.
Michelle Deal-Zimmerman is senior content editor for features and an advisory member of The Sun’s Editorial Board. Her column runs every fourth Wednesday. She can be reached at nzimmerman@baltsun.com.
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