Written by Mark Scarola
“I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy,
To touch my person to someone else’s
is about as much as I can stand.”— Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”
So, having been informed that the topic of this issue is the ever-elusive “perfect love” (or, as Winnie-the-Pooh might say, “the emotional Heffalump”), I sat down and took pen in hand. Oddly, I simply couldn’t bring pen to paper. At first I thought it might be fear that my current companion would take offense at something I wrote and abandon me, forcing me to rewrite the entire essay. That certainly wasn’t the case, so I stared at the paper for a few minutes, and then it struck me. The problem is that “perfect love” does not exist.
You see, “perfect love” is an oxymoron. Anyone who has experienced love can testify that it is awkward and clumsy, ill-timed and clammy, embarrassing and demeaning, elevating and debasing, and yet there is no greater endeavor. To expect love to be pure joy and elation is to miss exactly what makes it so wonderful. Love allows one to experience the full range and scope of human emotion. The highs give you nosebleeds, and the lows set you up for the bends. Even the time in between is filled with interesting emotional spasms. (Personally, I enjoy the moments following a phone conversation, when I realize I’ve said something very inappropriate, and verbally thrash myself out loud for the next few minutes.) If one experienced only the euphoria and not the nagging doubts, then one is not truly in love but truly moronic. If only the exaggerated moments of self-loathing are explored, then once again, it is not love but phone sex.
True “lovers” are deaf, blind, and mute. They hear the intonations of voice and carefully chosen words of their companion, but are unable to register the meaning of these things, leading them to ask questions like “What do you think he meant when he said he really likes me?” and the inevitable follow-up: “Do you think he really likes me?” One in love sees his lover’s face in microscopic detail, yet is completely incapable of reading its countenance. “What in the world is she staring at?” asks the man who cannot fathom that another might find him attractive. The one in love presumes it is a physical deformity that is being assessed, rather than the beauty he possesses.
Of course, the greatest disability of a person in love, and the one that causes the most pain to those who surround him or her, is the inability to semicoherently express feelings through the use of language. Some try anyway, which is why we are tortured by such songs as “I Can’t Smile Without You,” “I Honestly Love You,” and “Hey, Did You Happen to See the Most Beautiful Girl in the World?” (not to mention “Georgy Girl”). A lover who happens to possess a simulacrum of taste chooses instead to say as little as humanly possible, for fear of blurting out something like, “Hey, you know, Debbie, I just wanna let you know that I got all these feelings and stuff that I got for you and I wanted to let you know because sometimes I think you know but I really don’t know if you do, so I figured I’d tell you.”
Trying to deduce the feelings of your possible mate is perhaps the most anxiety-provoking part of this enigma we call love. And for those of you who need a bit of assistance, I offer an ancient piece of wisdom that I have just recently concocted. My theorem states, “The strength of one’s feelings towards another is directly related to the number of segues used in normal conversation with that significant other.” One who has been smitten by another is often over-cautious when approaching a conversation, especially if the conversation is of no interest to the listener. Rather than directly stating what needs to be said, the conversation is characterized by the use of particularly awkward segues. For example:
Woman: I was thinking that we might see a movie tonight.
Man: That sounds good . . . which reminds me that I just saw a preview
for that new John Waters film, Serial Mom, and I got to thinking that I’d call my Mom because I haven’t talked to her in a while, so I did,
and then I started to feel bad because she hasn’t gone out much since Dad got his goiter, so I invited her along with us tonight, if you don’t mind.
Here we clearly hear the nervousness and hesitance in the man’s words, because I would have rewritten it if we couldn’t. His verbal constipation is demonstrative of his desire to please his companion. Compare this with the speech of a man who has little concern for his prospective mate’s feelings:
Woman: I was thinking that we might see a movie tonight.
Man: Quit yapping, I’m scratching myself.
My theorem is correct! Just as I would have hoped!
Love is buoyant and unsinkable. No, that was the Titanic. Love, in fact, is fragile and easily corrupted. Into each relationship we carry the weight of all our past relationships. We expect love to raise our disenchanted and world-weary spirits and we simultaneously expect it to heal old wounds. What it really does is create new and more painful wounds — so painful that we simply forget about our old scabs, which eventually fall off, leaving us with only the new ones to tend to. Much like a good parachute jump, love must be approached with great fear and determination. (Note: the elderly, those with heart problems, and pregnant women please be warned.) In fact, love is like falling into a bottomless pit with Astroturf walls: one simultaneously feels the euphoria of freefall combined with the intense pain of rug burn when one accidentally brushes the sides.
Despite my obvious wisdom and level-headedness, I would hereby like to let you know that you should discount all that you have read so far. I’m an idiot. I know nothing. I’m in love.