What defines something as childish?

I'm curious about why certain tastes and activities are considered "childish". Things like Harry Potter or Pokemon or board games or video games or cartoons are often called childish because they appeal to kids, but it doesn't really make sense to exclusively label them "a kid thing," since a lot of adults enjoy them. Maybe an entertainment product is considered childish if it was designed and marketed specifically with kids in mind. But all the same, it was invented and developed by adults who may have been thinking of what they would still enjoy if they were socially permitted.

Certain types of entertainment are seen as kid stuff, but still acceptable for adults to partake in (Star Wars and comic books, for example). I wonder what makes some things more socially accepted as crossovers, while others are seen as exclusively the domain of kids. Maybe nostalgia is a factor. Because Star Wars has existed since the '70s, adults regard it as "acceptable" entertainment because it reminds them of their pasts. It also has a lot of philosophical/intellectual merit, as does Harry Potter, so that could be grasped as a reason to give it a pass for grown people.

There's also often an overlap between nerd culture and things that are judged as childish. Fantasy, sci fi, gaming, cosplay. But many of those things are increasingly embraced by adults, and the appeal is generally understood even by those who don't engage in them. This is part of the process of nerd culture moving to the mainstream.

Whenever a new entertainment trend pops up that relates to nerd culture, a lot of people denounce it as childish until gradually, it just comes to be seen as geeky (whether the person uses that term in a disparaging, affectionate, or neutral sense). I hope that will be the case with Pokemon Go. I hear a lot of surly sentiments along the lines of "I don't play because I'm an adult and I have responsibilities!" It's ridiculous to assume all adults who like the game have no responsibilities; many use it as a fun escape in their down time. Everyone who makes that complaint has a hobby, but they don't consider their own leisure activities to be immature. So it doesn't follow that every non-utilitarian act is seen as childish. I think it has to do with initial knee-jerk reactions to nerd culture. I hope to see this game assimilated into the menu of hobbies that are treated as valid for all ages.

Fictional potions and real-life consent

Trigger warning: examples of rape apologism and discussion of what, within the Harry Potter universe, is basically a date rape drug. (Although it's obviously a fictional universe, it raises issues that do pertain to the real world. So I just wanted to include a word of caution if that might remind anyone of real-life trauma.)

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Today I was thinking of the whole concept of love potion within the Harry Potter world and how many issues it brings up. What would happen if somebody slipped it to a person who was already in love with them? Would it cancel itself out and cause that love to disappear? Would it make no difference? Or would it just add a desperate, miserable element to the feeling that was already there? Also, would it work if given to someone who wasn't attracted to your gender? And if so, would anti-gay wizards exploit that in order to promote "ex-gay" therapy?

I wonder all those things about the concept of a love potion, as well as the way it would undermine the foundation of consent. J. K. Rowling recognized that factor, which was why it was always presented as a very harmful and destructive potion. She emphasized that it didn't really create love, as genuine love can't be replicated or artificially formed. Whenever a character drugged someone with it, it induced a desperate, unhappy, and insatiable obsession. I imagine that it was probably a heavily contested substance within the Harry Potter world. Whoever marketed it would probably argue that it didn't compromise your agency because you were consenting while under its influence. Those who sought to outlaw its sale would reply that you weren't acting of your own volition, since it altered your mental state and you didn't even agree to take it—it was always slipped into your food or drink, specifically because the person knew you wouldn't otherwise be interested. The marketers (and probably the wizarding community's version of gross, predatory pick-up artists) would disingenuously respond that nobody really consents to falling in love, anyway—that your own brain chemicals basically impose it on you. Protesters would rightly argue that at least the natural process isn't instigated by an outside source who is deliberately acting against your will.
            I was telling Mike about this and he felt the same way. Then he said, "See, this is why you were never invited to Hogwarts. Because you'd go in and start pointing out all the problems with their social norms."

Nine years

Written December 29, 2014.

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Yesterday was my anniversary with Michael O'Malley. We've now officially been together for nine years. Everyone who knows us sees us as an inseparable unit. As Davey said at our wedding, "If those two were any closer, they'd be like a fleshy Voltron."

It's funny and definitely true, but it's also true that we're very different from one another--and that works perfectly for us. It might seem counterintuitive how we can be such a great match when we have more or less no common interests. But what we don't share in interests or hobbies, we share in values, humor, and heart. Sometimes we disagree, but our deepest values are aligned. They always have been, even when our worldviews were completely different than they are now. We started off with complimentary mentalities and then our values changed together, so we still ended up in a mutual place. Mike and I have layers upon layers of in-jokes and can basically read each other's minds. We've seen one another through struggles I can never imagine facing with anyone else. All of our adventures spanning the past almost-decade have been shared.

Some of you may already know the story of the first time the two of us met in person, after months of talking from across the country. It was the date we didn't call a date. I had just turned nineteen and Mike was twenty-four. He showed up at my family's house, an Army tank-sized guy with an epic beard and a trench coat. My mom opened the door and announced, "Ginny, Hagrid is here to take you out!"

So I left with the real-life Hagrid. We went laser tagging and stopped at the Bridgeport Flier, where he made fun of me for barely eating. Then we hung out in his living room, where I decided to find out how many people could fit onto the couch at once. We piled ourselves, his two sisters, the dog, and two guinea pigs into a giant heap on the sofa and it nearly fell through the floor. He had to go back to Washington to finish school, but we talked every day for the next three months. Then I took a plane out to see him and we drove across the country back to Connecticut. Nine years later and we're married. We have a cozy apartment full of Keurig cups, psychedelic drawings, and the world's snuggliest cat. But wherever I go with him, I'm home.

Meeting Michael was finding my home. We share a whole world between us that we not only inhabit, but build upon each day. The greatest privilege I can imagine is to spend the rest of my life thriving in that sacred space.