61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Nerve's videogame blog: Street Fighter. The movie. A new one. With that chick from that Superman show. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about!
The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Mad Men's January Jones struts her stuff in Vanity Fair. Plus: Damages returns, the latest Gossip Girl guest star and Donna Martin capitulates.
When I was fifteen, my boyfriend's mother would often take me to Sonic for a cherry limeade. She offered it as a treat, but I felt embarrassed about not being able to pay for my own drink and guilty about accepting her generosity, so I always earnestly assured her, "I'll pay you back."
"I'm not worried about it," she'd say with a smile.
But I worried about it. Not enough to refuse the cherry limeade, but enough to fantasize about calculating the number of cherry limeades I'd consumed and repaying the amount owed — with interest — once I turned sixteen and got a job. I dated her son for a few more years, but I never paid back the cherry limeades.
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Years later, while skiing in the Alps with my girlfriend, I fell and sprained my shoulder. As I writhed and shuddered on the ground, I heard someone suggest calling for a helicopter. My eyes flew open. "No helicopter!" I said. What I was thinking was, I can't afford that! But in truth, I couldn't afford the rescuers who wrapped me up like a huge papoose and dragged me behind them to the clinic, and I couldn't afford the subsequent X-rays. For that matter, I couldn't afford to go skiing in the Alps. But my girlfriend was from a wealthy Swiss family and had asked me to come, so I came. I could accept the gift of the trip, but I felt rib-crushing guilt about the extra expense of my uninsured injury. While waiting outside for a cab to take us back to the chalet, I promised her that somehow, someday, I would pay her back. Of course, I never did.
The reason for this is pretty straightforward: I've never had a lot of dough. I've always been a waitress and a writer, although now that I'm approaching thirty, I've graduated to working as a bookstore clerk and a writer. That's the life I wanted, and I got it. But while I've chosen a certain degree of penury, I've also chosen partners who've had more money than I do, and I've always let them pick up the check. I've permitted myself this by assuring myself that I'll make it up to them in the long run. But as my burgeoning maturity burns the mist off my delusions, I'm confronted with all the tabs I've left open and unpaid behind me. Suddenly I'm struck with an unexpected question: Am I a gold-digger?
When we think gold-digger, we think Anna Nicole Smith. Certainly, that can't be me. I drive a flesh-toned '98 Saturn that I struggle to keep filled with four-dollar gas. But is gold-digging an attitude, or simply a behavior? I've lived with my boyfriend, Jeffrey, for over a year and have yet to pay a cent in rent or bills. I could get a higher-paying job, but I haven't been inclined to.
The difference between gold-digging and dating someone who just happens to make more money than you — and who pays for your lifestyle — is subtle. To find out which side of this line I fall on, I presented my case to some other couples I know who have themselves dealt with this issue. Each couple formulated their own way of handling their income disparities, and each has their own perspective on what does and does not a gold-digger make. Their perspectives and experiences, which vary wildly, show how such factors as age, religion, income level and desire for Gucci apparel can make one person's gold-digging another's healthy, well-balanced relationship.
