We known it’s a sham but we head right in anyway.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m going in this without a paddle. The whole rip-off aspect of it intrigues me, thus excites me. It’s always been a mystery to me why we still do it. Some use it as an obvious ploy to get lucky or rekindle old flames – much like a prom night for grownups. But for those without an agenda, I guess it’s great to live out a fantasy of immaculate love, at least for a day. At this point, we all know the Alfred Hitchcock Presents of romance – the deception, the whodunits, and of course the clever lines that come with it.
We all know what we’re all supposed to want: Stability, security, rational behavior and laundry Sundays with the one you love. However, like communism, it’s good in theory but horrible in practice.
Romance supposedly in its Badgley Mishka best: An interruption from the mundane and prosaic. Yet it is important to note that it is our romantic notions that thoroughly do us in. To live a Rivotril-free existence one must know that there is a difference between romance and love – and a way for both to co-exist without losing their identities. Much like a shrink-free relationship.
Romance can be a cauldron of lies. Let’s talk about The Curse of Ken (Barbie’s beau) for example. In my gold digging youth, being tired of my five peso a day allowance, I trained myself to hook Prince William (or at least a caricature of him). Today, Harry seems like a better choice up until that wardrobe malfunction of his. The Curse of Ken is simply the mousetrap that makes us believe that we should go for those so-called eligible bachelors. First of all, there is no poignancy in desiring someone everyone already desires. It’s like Murakami bags or Tod’s loafers in college, there is just no soul in coveting it. Trophy boys are so over, most of them are in rehab anyway. Alternately most of the time they are quite disappointing in their ordinariness. These "right guys" more often than not are good in paper and are as good as paper.
This is what true love is. In an age wherein we are trained not to compromise, never to be co-dependent and give up one’s identity for a false sense of security, it’s all about knowing what you want. It’s like buying a shoe that’s so off and horribly pricey and impractical, but you can’t help but have it. Every stylish person I know is so because they know what works for them. Every self-made millionaire I know is so because they know exactly where they were headed.
Every lonely person I know is so because they know what they have to like. When you know what you want, every riddle will make sense.
The end does not come in knowing what you like, here comes the harder part: Keeping it together. When people find the person that may be it, one of two things happen: They screw it up or they take drastic measures to Teflon it from doom. Now if you are drop-dead beautiful, you know the lucky bitch type that can just go on living life by touching up their roots and be adored. I have found that the most gorgeous women are still in delilah marriages (paging Melania Knauss with her sponsored Graff ring shudders). Rogues usually pair with the most fabulous sirens, which leads to tragic ever-afters. The beginning is exciting no doubt. After falling in love, that dreamy state amid the backdrop of five-star resorts and foie gras lunches soon fade into HBO nights with two-day-old leftovers if they’re lucky. This is where its sinister cousin makes its presence felt. Love begins when romance fades, but that doesn’t necessarily mean romance is truly over. It’s like a tune-up, from time to time you need the oils changed and replace the musty Shaldan on the dashboard.
I’ve known some people who have done every precaution to Kevlar vest their unions. One friend lived with his fiancée for years, and with all the domestic drama that ensued in that period of time, he still thought that this was it. What more could happen? They got married and were envied. Then the cookie crumbled. A few years later it ended in a sad yet amicable split. When I asked him why, all he said was, "When you get married you suddenly get titles like husband and wife, the concept of forever makes you take things for granted and forget the things that mattered. Saying sorry is forgotten. Simple things like calling in becomes trivial. You just start making amends so you don’t sleep on the couch, not because you hurt someone. You don’t realize these things until it’s over."
My mother taught me early on what real love is all about. She married my father, whom I love dearly. I shall not elaborate on the controversial details for fear that I might get disinherited (just kidding, daddy, love you, love you!), but despite all the burden that my mother carried I can still see that she loves him just the same way she did when she first kissed him.
Her love doesn’t come from uxorial duty. She is far too intelligent for such servile activities. Her love comes from her commitment to my father. She committed to love him that day she married him when she hardly knew him. It’s said that you only know the press release of the man you wed until the first child is born. After I was born (I’m the second), my mom sure knew what the deal was by then. Yet it’s still all about my father to this day. Not because of anything but because she is devoutly committed to him and their marriage. This is what I think a lot of people forget about commitment – they forget about the commitment part.
In an age wherein the simplest mistake becomes a grand gesture of fecklessness, we have lowered our threshold for pain and sacrifice. The exit is always there, of course. However, it’s staying close to the windows of opportunity and growth that matter. Love, I realize, is not about roses and good times. It’s about the bad times and pain, the complications and doubt that accompany and fortify it. Love is not about needing to be but choosing to be. We have to stand by the right things sometimes because believe it or not the world is better lived for someone else that for yourself alone. You’ll see.
I have mom to thank for that.