It’s always about love.

I find myself wondering a lot recently about the nature of love, the evolutionary advantage of it, and the conversely lack of logic associated with it. In my 52 years (almost 53 now), I have loved many people, have had my heart broken, have experienced deep and enduring affection, and still, even with my ovaries in their dysfunctional state and no biological imperative egging me onward, find myself head-over-heels in love with all the passions and desires one associates with that. Yes, even though I no longer desire the pain of sex, I still want to consummate my love. I seem to be in a box here.

Puns aside, and there were plenty in that last paragraph, love is a strange emotion. As a child, love was easy. It bound me to my parents (well, to my mother; my father was a difficult person, but that’s another story) and to my brothers. I never questioned it; it just was. Later there was the “best friend” phenomenon, and to this day I still love my best friend. (She reads this, so I’d better say that!) When boyfriends came on the scene, I fell in love serially. Of all the steady boyfriends I had, and there were a lot, I think I didn’t fall in love with two. Maybe three. More likely two. Counseling in university helped me realize that I was trying to replace my father’s lack of affection with that of a sexual partner, and once it dawned on me what was happening, I stopped doing that. Then, shortly afterward, I met Hubby and the rest is history.

My kids came along and I fell in love with them. I wasn’t a naturally maternal person before that. I didn’t like children. I cringed at the thought of having my own, and admittedly when they were infants and toddlers, as cute and adorable as they were, I still yearned for the day when I would be able to communicate with them on a level that I understood. But I still love my kids. I think that bond of affection surpasses all others in my life, even my marital one. If my husband were to die, I would mourn, I would think about suicide briefly, but ultimately I would carry on with my life and possibly find another mate. If one or both of my children were to die, I would be totally devastated. I don’t know how I would carry on after that. I know that people do, but life would seem meaningless. After all, that is the goal of life, to reproduce; and if the fruits of your loins die, meaning has been subtracted from the equation.

My mother told me a joke once. A girl asks her ancient grandmother, “Bubbeh (this is a Jewish joke, in case I forget to mention that), when do you stop feeling the fire of passionate love?” The grandmother, skin thin as paper, hair snowy white, her face a contour map of the earth’s crust, replied, “I don’t know, my dear. I don’t know.”

Nu?

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