Love. As in those horrid soppy love songs. It’s all a lot of b*llocks, really. The most ridiculous argument I’ve heard recently is whether a woman should be disappointed if her man hasn’t said “I love you” after six months. I pretty much figured he should know after a few weeks – but know what, exactly? Is there even really any such thing?
Let’s not beat around the bush here: most of what we call “love” is not wanting to die alone and be eaten by cats. All those fluttery, heart-skippy feelings are chemical dictators imploring us to find a friend we like the idea of f***ing and tactfully overlooking everything we find annoying about them for long enough that we can entice them into a legally-binding contract not to skip town if offspring arrive, and of putting up with their s*** until you’re old and grey and get to be eaten by cats together.
The first time you say “I love you” is the moment when you realise that all their irritating habits are just endearing little quirks. If you wait to say “I love you” until you mean it in the grown up sense – when you find yourself doing some tedious household chore that you think is pointless and doesn’t need to be done but you’ll do it because he wants you to do it and he hasn’t even asked but you’ll do it anyway just to see him smile – hell, that s*** takes years. That’s the kind of love that develops after you’ve been married five years. Love is a verb. It’s not really a feeling at all. It’s the kind actions that come naturally when you’re putting someone else’s needs above your own. Still wanting to sleep with the guy after a decade isn’t “love”, that’s just “good taste”.
Reinspired 