A Collection of Thoughts on Modern Love.

Cliff + Cassidy by Clint Shuttlesworth

Oh Love. Or in the words of one Ashley Simpson Ello, Ello, Ello, Ello, Vee, Eee.

Like a JoBros concert, I usually try and avoid V-Day like the plague. But this year, in lieu of spewing hatred on the infamously industry-created “holiday” I decided to confront it head on, and face the demons. So what’s the big deal anyway? This will be the 6th year in a row I won’t have a Valentine. And most of those years that was a conscious decision. Most of them.

I’m known to be pretty outspoken on my views of romantic relationships, moreso that I’m writing a book about it. But rarely do I ever discuss the L word. It’s not that I’m afraid of love (an all too common misjudgment of a 31 year old single gal). I’ve been in love. I’ve been loved. I cringe when coupled up friends remark, “oh, you just haven’t met the right one yet!” It doesn’t often occur to those people that maybe I’m not looking for the right one. Just yet, at least. I refer to this as couple-tunnel vision. Or love goggles. Most people in a relationship (at least happy, healthy relationships) can’t imagine why everyone wouldn’t want to be. I’m not going to get into that in this post, but suffice it to say, not every single person is actively looking for love.

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Growing up in the South has had an adverse impact on my views on marriage and relationships. I’ve traveled all over the world, and the stereotype that Southern folks tend to get married at an earlier age, seems to be pretty spot on to me. Speaking in general terms, of course.  Not that I am judging this at all, just an observation. When writing for the book, I focus my audience on young women, girls in their late teens, or early twenties. You change SO much in your twenties. How challenging of a situation to be in for two people, both changing so drastically, to try keep the same ideals? In no way am I saying this can’t be done. I have many happily married friends who were married in their early 20’s. I just want to offer that there is an alternative. A happy, growing, fulfilling alternative. I don’t think that quite gets through to most people. At least in the South.

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As cliche and predictable as it sounds, the HBO series Sex & The City had a tremendous impact on my feelings on dating and relationships. Not in a way that I sought to emulate these characters, but for the first time in my 26 years (the age at which I discovered the show) I finally felt like someone GOT me. For the first time I felt like someone was telling MY story. I’ve dated these guys! I’ve had these issues. Married guys hit on me WAY too often. Some guys are horrible kissers and, yes, some women, even in the South, have healthy, active intimate relationships. I’ve been told flat out to my face that “no one acts like those women.” By golly, they do. I DO.

I have an eternal argument with two of my closest friends about Fiction vs. Non-Fiction. I wouldn’t label myself an avid reader, but when I do read, it’s usually history or other non-fiction books. Why? Because it ACTUALLY happened. I understand the talent it takes to create a world of fiction. And I understand the delight of being drawn into a fantasy world, especially in the fast-paced, quickly changing world we live in. However, I like to base my idols on REAL people. People with real flaws, emotions, and experience. Both Maggie and Andrew will argue with this, but just as well. That’s why I love them.

I know what you’re going to say. Say it. Sex & The City is fiction. Or is it? Personally, I feel like the details of these women’s lives and situations are too intimately documented to be made up. A vast majority of the writers on the show are women, and I’m confidant that Monday morning writers meeting consisted many times of weekend tales from these women. Nevertheless, these characters, dialogue, and relationships portrayed are comfortable to me. Or rather, a comfort. Or both.

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A few weeks ago I attended an Opera in the Heights Performance of Un Ballo en Maschera. As many operatic plots goes, the protagonist is destroyed by his flaw of loving a woman too much. For the woman to only be discovered by her husband, who threatened to execute her in front of their son for her transgression. In book after book, and movie after movie, we see love portrayed as an all consuming emotion that leads seemingly sane people to crazy, self-destruction. I often have wondered if this kind of love exists in real life? Or are these acts merely machinations of mental psychoses within one’s self?  If in 2010 a man cut his ear off and sent it to a woman as a Valentine, he’d be arrested, thrown in jail, and evaluated for mental stability. But 150 years ago, this act was “romantic”, the ultimate act of “love”.

On the way home from the opera, I commented to my date, “At what point did men stop loving women so much that they would endure pain, suffering, and ultimately death?!”

“The same point at which it stopped being acceptable for a man to execute his wife in front of his child,” he quickly remarked.

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I heard from a friend this morning, that in Australia only couples celebrate Valentine’s Day. More specifically, “V day is an annual holiday celebrating love and affection between intimate companions.” As if people not in relationships aren’t capable of giving or receiving love. Psshhh. I happen to actually enjoy showing extra affection to everyone in my life on Valentine’s Day–Mom, Dad, best friends, Grandma–as an act of reminding myself how lucky I am to have these people to help me through my life.

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When talking about love, I’m constantly reminded of Carrie Bradshaw’s desperate admission in one of the last episodes in the series:

“I’m looking for love. Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other love. And I don’t think that love is here in this expensive suite in this lovely hotel in Paris.”

And good for her for knowing the difference.

LOVE,

Monica

Tags: love, valentine's day