I don't mean having a cynical attitude about love. (Funny how the words "skepticism" and "cynicism" get conflated.) I mean taking a skeptical, materialist, entirely non-woo view of life -- and applying it to how we think about love.
The other day, Ingrid showed me this video by Tim Minchin, famed atheist and skeptical singer/ songwriter/ poet/ performance artist/ comedian. (For boring technical reasons, I'll embed it at the end of the post instead of here.) The gist of the song, sung for and about his wife (spoiler alert!): "If I didn't have you, I probably would have somebody else."
At first, Ingrid was worried that I'd be hurt by her showing me the video. But like her, I found it hilarious -- and in a freaky way, I found it one of the most romantic and loving things I've seen in a while. ("You fall within a bell curve" has now become one of our endearments.)
And it's gotten me thinking about the whole idea of soul-mates, and romantic destiny, and there being one perfect love for you in the whole world. All of which I think is a load of dingo's kidneys.
And I don't think I'm being unromantic.
First, obviously, I think the whole "soul-mate/ romantic destiny" thing is just wrong. Mistaken. Not true. I don't think we have souls, much less mates for them; I don't think there's an invisible hand pushing people together (and if there were, it'd have a seriously sadistic sense of humor, what with putting people's true destined loves on opposite sides of the country and whatnot).
But maybe more to the point:
The "soul-mate/ romantic destiny" vision of love puts the focus on love as something you feel -- rather than something you do.
It puts the focus on love as something that happens to you -- rather than something that you choose.
And I find it much more romantic, and much more loving, to see love as something we do, and something we choose.
When we see love solely as something that we feel... then what happens when those feelings change? As they inevitably do.
And when we see love solely as something that happens to us... then what happens when the going gets tough, and we have to make hard choices about the relationship? For that matter, what happens when something else happens to us -- something that conflicts with the love? What happens when we get job offers in other cities... or when other romantic prospects appear on the horizon?
Of course a huge part of love is the way we feel about our beloved. The feelings of tenderness and passion that well up in me when I look at Ingrid, the feelings of anxious excitement that I had when we were first starting out...that's an enormous part of what we have between us. And of course a huge part of love is the feeling that something has hit you out of the clear blue sky. When Ingrid and I were first going out, I used to say that I felt like I'd been conked on the head with a giant vaudeville rubber mallet. If love didn't have the power to knock us out of our tracks and into a whole new life, it wouldn't be what it is.
But I don't think that's enough. It's enough to get love started -- but it's not enough to sustain it.
I think what sustains love is doing the dishes when you promised to. Remembering the book they said they wanted, and getting it for their birthday. Skipping the movie you wanted to see, to go with them to a party of their friends who you don't know very well. Remembering which kind of seltzer water they like when you go shopping; remembering how they like their burgers cooked when you're making dinner. Sitting with them when they're grieving... and restraining your impulse to always try to fix things and give advice and make things better, and instead being willing to just sit still and be with them in their pain. Asking if there's anything they need from the kitchen while you're up. Wearing the stupid sticky breathing strip on your nose at night so your snoring doesn't keep them awake. Bringing them endless cups of tea when they're sick. Keeping your temper in an argument, and remembering that as angry as you might be right now, you love this person and don't want to hurt them. Saying, "I love you." Saying, "You're beautiful" -- not just when they're dolled up for a night on the town, but when they come home from work and you notice that they look particularly fetching. Noticing when they come home from work looking particularly fetching. Going to their readings, their dance performances, their office parties. Going to their family gatherings, and treating their family as your family, too. Going to the vet together. Trying out music they like, books they like, recipes they like, hobbies they like, kinds of sex they like, even if you don't think it's your thing: not just because you want to make them happy, but because it's part of who they are, and you want to find out more about them, and share the things that matter to them.
In the inimitable words of Tim Minchin, "Love is nothing to do with destined perfection/ The connection is strengthened; the affection simply grows over time... And love is made more powerful by the ongoing drama of shared experience and synergy/ And symbiotic empathy or something like that... " Sure, the feelings I have for Ingrid have a lot to do with the giant vaudeville rubber mallet I got conked on the head with when we fell in love. But they have more to do with the eleven plus years we've spent together: the meals we've eaten, the parties we've thrown, the vacations we've taken, the arguments we've had, the sex we've had, the griefs we've borne, the thousands of nights we've spent sleeping in the same bed, the long conversations we've had about politics, about religion, about books, about our friends, about our cats, about bad reality television.
And none of that has anything to do with fate.
Like Tim Minchin, I'm intensely aware of the massive role that pure chance plays in our lives. Not fate, not destiny, but pure dumb random roll- of- the- dice luck. As passionately as I love San Francisco, I realize that I could have landed in a dozen other cities -- New York, Portland, London, Seattle, Minneapolis -- and settled happily there instead. I often think about the people in those cities who would have been my friends if I lived there instead of San Francisco; I sometimes even feel a loss, a yearning, for the people I've never met who could have been my best friends.
And I realize that if I'd wound up in one of those cities instead of San Francisco, I would never have met Ingrid, and we both would likely have met and fallen in love with other people instead. While there's a pragmatic sense in which I suppose Ingrid and I were destined to meet -- we both lived in San Francisco, we were interested in many of the same things, we knew many of the same people, it's not actually that big of a city -- any one of a thousand small choices and pieces of random chance could have resulted in our paths not crossing. Or not crossing at the right time.
What makes Ingrid uniquely special to me isn't that she's my soul-mate, my destiny, the one person in billions I could have loved and been happy with. What makes Ingrid uniquely special to me is the years we have behind us: the meals and parties and sex and conversations and trips to the vet and everything else. It's the things we do, and have done, and will do for many years to come; it's the choices we make, and have made, and will make in the years we have left.
Of the people in the world I might have been happy with? She falls within a bell curve. Of the people in the world I now want to be with? She is entirely and 100% unique. Not because a divine hand made us uniquely suited to be together... but because we have chosen to make each other unique.
Oh, yeah. The Tim Minchin video is below the jump, since when I put videos above the jump it screws up my archives.
Like I said. Ingrid and I both think this is totally romantic. I know. We're freaks.