Less is Amour

I’ve written about happiness, and about fear, so I thought it might be nice to continue to write about emotions. Apparently there are seven basic emotions that humans feel, only some of which correspond to Snow White’s Seven Dwarves, even though I thought that was the whole point – explaining to children that women need an entire house full of men to learn to control their emotions. So this week I’ve decided to write about love, something which I know nothing about because I’m not sure I believe it exists.
WHOA what? There’s your opening gambit guys, that’ll pull you right in, whether through intrigue or outrage.

First of all, love isn’t one of the seven basic emotions that humans feel, so already I’ve totally ignored my initial premise for writing this. But love is the most talked about emotion, and is arguably the catalyst for many great works of art, so I thought it time to add this blog to that list, somewhere in between the Taj Mahal and Nicki Minaj’s Super Bass. Saying I don’t think it exists at all might be a stretch, but I don’t think it’s an objective emotion in the same way that Joy or Fear or Anger is, even though it’s portrayed in the media as something perfect and consistently meaningful to everyone, like pancakes. Just the fact that you can use the same word to describe your feelings towards a devoted spouse of fifty years and a particularly engaging episode of Bargain Hunt shows how diluted a concept it has become. You could reasonably say ‘I love you’ to a person and a pair of shoes with exactly the same inflection, and no-one would bat an eyelid, unless you were hoping that both times you’d get the same response. It just seems odd how we’re expected to love a person unconditionally, until one of you dies, even if they have some unforgivable flaws like not being able to wink or drinking skimmed milk instead of semi-skimmed like everyone else. I suppose I believe love exists, but not in the same way for everyone, and the more you try to define it, the more you’re limiting yourself in what you think is supposed to make you happy.

I think a fair comparison would be pornography. Romantic movies give an unrealistic expectation of love with their unnaturally perfect proposals and portrayal of love overcoming all the odds, just how pornography gives an unrealistic expectation of sex with their unnaturally perfect bodies and lovers cumming over each other, instead of into a condom as God intended. And without wanting to get into too sexist or stereotypical territory, just as internet-addled young boys won’t be satisfied unless their partners behave like porn actors, young rom-com-addled women won’t be satisfied with a proclamation of love unless it’s delivered by Ryan Gosling in the pouring rain, before instantly contracting a narratively appropriate form of Alzheimer’s (I’ve not seen The Notebook, this is my best guess). It also won’t stop anytime soon; the more people imitate what they see, the more pop culture has to up the stakes to remain exciting and different. You’ll end up in a feedback loop where depictions of sex are so far removed from the basic act that porn ends up being a blindfolded woman at a desk, writing down a man’s flaws on a piece of paper, before folding it into the shape of a dog, and inserting into the man’s anus, while he laughs. And equally love, weddings and companionship become so expensive and dramatic that there’s no way a lifelong partnership can sustain that initial level of amazement and drama, leading to shorter relationships, therefore more partners, leading to an unending slew of dance routines and amateur poetry, all in competition to find the person they can spend the next 6 months with, before they get bored again. Life will literally be a cabaret.

So what can we do about this? Well, we have to stop putting a fake version of ourselves out there for approval, and show our flaws up front. We have to fart on the dance floor, and take ownership of it. We must pick our noses at dinner, and wipe it onto the table cloth in full view of the waiting staff. We must tell people their tattoos look shit if we think so, and expect others to do the same to us.
And for those in a relationship; shit with the door open, drink from the carton, sneeze into your partner’s face and laugh. Ryan Gosling would never do that, but Ryan Gosling isn’t real. He was sent here as a paragon, an ideal to strive towards, but one we know we can never achieve. Reach for the Goslings and Emily Blunts of the world. But know that when you get together, if they have any sense, they’ll still be picking their spots or sniffing their own balls, because that’s love.

Next time on the Bandwagon – Step aside dogs, according to a new study, man’s best friend is heroin.