Since the only thing larger than my editor’s more than generous word limit is my ego, I wanted to delve into more kindly-intended but utterly tone-deaf advice about lonesomeness and courtship rituals. I really can’t hammer it home enough how genuinely thankful I am that my tribe has an instinct to try and safeguard me from disappointment and catastrophic romantic failure. But it comes by way of disinterest in my unique circumstances in favor of oversimplified, dressed up versions of “you’re doing it wrong.” This is overpoweringly annoying.
Last time around, I let myself get hung up on the subjective platitudes most often force fed to me that are long past age appropriate. Now I’d like to let myself get hung up on a few tidbits that I understand to be deglamorizing warnings about love connections, yet come across as a shocking lack of trust in my ability for rational thought. But who knows, maybe I’m not as on the ball as I fancy I am. Feel free to start a poll in the comments.
“A RELATIONSHIP WON’T SOLVE ALL YOUR PROBLEMS”
Wait, not only adding but prioritizing the necessities of another person won’t instantly banish my fly-strewn heap of sweltering burdens to the unknowable void of a nexus dimension? You get straightaway out of town, elfin voice inside my skull! Of course being in a partnership won’t make every day all sweetness and light. Relationships are made of people, not bacon crumbles and student debt relief. Nothing will ever take all our heaviness away except the supple entwine of death, and even then I’ll still be having nightmares about housing issues in metro Seattle.
I’m not looking for someone to descend from the cosmic ether and cure me of all my woes. That’s just dumb. But so is pretending that having a complex, unspoken connection with a kindred personality doesn’t lighten the spine-crunching weight that consciousness keeps piling on the longer we keep going. Loneliness, self-doubt, resentment, selfishness, disappointment, anger, acceptance and responsibility aren’t negotiable when it comes to having brainwave activity. But getting around or through or properly absorbing them is almost universally easier knowing someone is willing to reinforce your inner battalions, not to mention finding the strength to do the same for theirs without even realizing it.
My knockoff brand flu medicine that both looks and tastes like Stretch Armstrong’s intestinal lining doesn’t put a halt to all that ails me when I come down with a bug. But it uncorks at least one nostril and renders me clinically dead for 16 hours, which is infinitely better than pushing through a rough illness without backup. Anyone in a healthy relationship who claims their counterpart doesn’t have the same effect on them I have to suspect is either not paying attention, taking their person(s) grossly for granted or lying to make a point.
“IT’S NOT ALL GOOD STUFF”
Don’t misunderstand, this is a fist-sized laser-cut gem of a lesson, and we all have to figure a way to go from grappling to awkwardly waltzing with it. But you know what’s worse than having to deal with semi-regular rough seas with your fellow life traveler? Nothing. Nothing is worse. Not “nothing” meaning those choppy waters are the lowest of all possible depths, or that evil shadow thing from The Neverending Story. I mean nothing as in being reluctantly deprived of human affinity altogether.
I’m lucky enough to be at a point in life where I have both health insurance and access to a consistently functioning water heater, which checks most of my personal boxes for being a grownup. But another big one is being able to understand that it’s complete experiences, not just the joyful, that are the most soulfully gratifying and push you the hardest toward inward fulfillment. I can’t imagine butting heads or coming to verbal blows with your companion is all that fun if it’s not your guys’ thing. Yet that kind of unfiltered quarreling can tear down emotional barricades you may not realize you’re building, unclogging that vein of unrestricted openness that should be freely coursing between one heart and another.
I’m well aware of the digestive anarchy I can expect every time I opt for bottomless steak fries, but that hardly takes away from the earnest laughs I get to have in the grace period between stuffing my gourd and driving home from Red Robin. Point is, I am in fact a full-fledged adult. I’m more than capable of both understanding and appreciating that loving someone is a complicated affair that’s a frequent source of rewarding aggravation and infuriating elation. All of that sounds good to me, even the bad parts. Probably just a lot more fun than my current thing, by and large.
“IT TAKES WORK”
If we can just briefly throw back to nitpicking word choices, I really think we as a species need to clarify the difference between “work” and “effort.” The former is something you do begrudgingly because there’s implied consequences that’ll be less than fabulous if you don’t do it. The latter is an undertaking that might not be a gushing font of endorphins while you’re doing it, but still somehow gives you some degree of inward satisfaction.
It makes me wince to say this as a Democratic Socialist, but our brains are arguably capitalistic by nature. We flat out don’t do anything unless our chemical receptors tell us there’s something in it for us. If my recycling bins get blown into the middle of the road, I won’t go near them until I get a city ordinance in the mail demanding that I get them relocated (they smell super bad and somehow always sticky, the raccoons won’t even go near them).
And I usually don’t get said command until I’m threatened with a kneecapping by hired goons sent by the Postmaster General, because I hate walking to my mailbox. That’s work. Spending the majority of my weekend driving around to indie toy stores looking for the Lego castle I’m dead set on buying for my niece so I can avoid giving any money to Amazon? Effort. Because any six-year-old who’s already a better person than me deserves lovely things. Plus I don’t have to make a hypocrite of myself by always decrying that sentient teratoma of company to anyone who’ll listen, but caving when I’m staring down a birthday deadline. If you’re in a place where the exertion you put into being with someone doesn’t even give you at least a subdued sense of being gratified, you might seriously want to reconsider why you’re even bothering.
All this is a roundabout way of trying to remind people that I’m the one whose lived in this ramshackle mess of engine parts and duct tape I call a self for nigh on four decades. So please understand that idealizing the thought of a tender union isn’t at the root of my being a lovelorn disaster. I mean, I’m as great at reading social cues as a comatose dust mote, but I’d say my brain’s beaten pretty decent evolutionary odds to get me this far. Right?
Right?
Read: Congratulations, Your Advice on Being Single Is Terrible
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