The day itself, introduced by a particularly bored pontiff roughly 1500 years ago and named in honour of at least one of the fourteen St Valentines recognised by the Catholic church, has turned largely into a money making exercise (surprise surprise). What started out as a day to mark the passing of (at least one) martyr to the Christian cause is now little more than an excuse for Evil Corporations (TM) to feed off the common understanding that any couple who fail to celebrate their love on February 14th are utter failures who don't love each other at all and are probably secretly screwing farm animals. Not even the church officially recognises the day any more (it was taken off their calendar in 1969), and yet the social guilt complex installed to ensure we mark the date still has us out keeping Clintons, Thorton's and Italian restaurants in the black for another year.
That's OK though, because we're in a financial downturn right now and need to feed the economy with this kind of bollocks as much as possible. It almost makes up for the annual death toll on February 13th; the day when jilted partners around the world decide to prove how undying their love is by actually dying, thus saddling the object of their affection with an epic shame spiral to remember them by. Such is love.
At least, some love. Therein lies the problem: I tell people I love them all the time, but depending on who I say it to the meaning of the word "love" can vary wildly. There is a terrible tendency to assume that people know what you mean when you use the word "love"; that your idea of love is exactly the same as theirs. That's actually a pretty bloody dangerous assumption to make when you might be sharing a significant amount of your life with the other party. In my experience the word "love", when used between two people in sobriety, can mean any of the following:
- I have no idea why, but without you in my life I feel empty and alone
- I recognise we have so much in common and find each other so interesting in so many ways that we can build a fantastic life together
- I find you to be an excellent shag and I can tolerate everything else about you
- I appreciate the fact that you continue to facilitate my desire to own many things
- We appear to have an infant
In reality the word will usually mean a combination of some or all of the above, but it's almost impossible to tell to what degree each is a factor when someone tells you they "love" you. What makes things even more complicated is that although numbers 1 and 2 are the pictures of love normally portrayed by the arts and media, numbers 3, 4 and 5 are what we are naturally designed to do. The reason humans emerge from the womb plus sexual organs and minus quill and inkwell is because we are evolved for fucking, not poetry. Likewise, survival of the fittest will favour those of us who are inclined to acquire life improving items above those who give everything away.
So why do we have this concept of "true love", that made the thirteen year-old Juliet kiss the poisoned lips of her dead lover, a boy whose family was actively trying to kill her own? More importantly, why are we able to relate to her in any way at all?
Partially, perhaps, because society conditions us to do so. Certainly, I know some people who are so hung up on the idea of being "in love" that they now spend so much time chasing prospective partners they fail to see the damage they're doing to their own personality. The irony is that the moment they give up on the whole thing will probably be the time they succeed, but they'll never give up because everything is telling them that single = failure. Perhaps this isn't such a bad reason to seek "love", but personally I think it's fucking tragic.
There is, however, such a thing as genuinely being "madly in love"; to desire the company and well-being of a person so strongly that you think, say and do things that to an outside observer might seem completely irrational and often stupid or dangerous. The key word to remember in this situation is the word "madly": this kind of "love" is the result of a set of neurological conditions that, on an fMRI scan, very closely resemble the brain activity of some Schizophrenics. In short it's a mental disorder brought on by Disney films. Is this such a bad thing? Certainly not if your feelings are reciprocated. If they're not? It's hard to live with, and certainly there's a stigma attached to it which will never really go away. Happily, that's because most people can't relate to it. But if you work at it, and remember to try and ensure it's not the only thing in your life, you'll be fine. The only person that's responsible for your emotions is you.
Whatever you think "love" is, I hope that this February 14th goes well for you. I hope you're happy in your love if you have it, and that you find the right kind for you if you don't. Just remember that the cards and chocolates are superfluous; whether you're in a relationship or not, February 14th will be whatever you make it. Just like every other day.
Rant over.
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