In which there’s a very long-form piece about love. (Originally posted here, but since I wrote it I decided I’d like a local copy and moved it. So here it is.)

A year ago, if you’d asked me if I’d ever been in love before, I would have said yes, of course. I mean, I’m a divorced grown-ass woman, aren’t I?

I’ve been in love a dozen times or more, haven’t I? I’ve had that wonderful flush at the beginning, and the horrible heartache and tears at the end, and the various shades of really good to merely okay to this-fucking-sucks in between. I’m an old hand at this shit. Been there, done that.

So much so that I weighed the pros, as I understood them, of being with someone versus the cons, and came to the only logical conclusion:

Fuck relationships.

Relationships suck.

They cost far more than they return. You try, and work, and “compromise” (which as far as I know means giving up on getting your needs met, and not whatever it says in the dictionary) and you listen and bite your tongue and repeatedly assume fault and blame for things you don’t think you did wrong, and, if you’re me, you end up losing lots (of money or belongings or opportunities), and at the end of all that, the reward is that you’re broke and had a brief period of somewhat-okay sex with someone who apparently never gave a shit about you in the first place and, bonus, now thinks you’re a bitch.

Yeah, well, as nice as cuddles can be, what with the dopamine and general health benefits and such, they’re not worth all that. And whatever sophomoric Disney-fueled ideas I may once have had, well, I certainly know better now.

There isn’t anyone to woo you and tell you you’re pretty, to call you pet names and wax poetic about how he wants to take care of you and make you happy. That shit just doesn’t exist.

Nobody gives a shit if you’re happy, not even boyfriends or husbands. They imply that they do, for a bit, at first, before the contempt of familiarity and the details real life set in, but they don’t. Not really.

People want you to make them happy, that’s how the world works. People want to take, not give. They want you to be what they think they want, and they don’t even look to see who you really are.

Better to abandon the idea of personal love, of romantic love —whatever that is — and concentrate on loving everybody. That way you can give without getting lost in it. That way there’s still love in your life, it just isn’t as specific and therefore not as expensive. You can set your own boundaries. You don’t have to compromise as much; the less intimate the relationship the less control you relinquish.

Try to be love rather than have love.

It’s a fine and good approach. And it costs much less. And you don’t have to share the blankets or put the seat down or feel guilty about drinking your supper. Again.

I have no idea how couples stay together for decades. Maybe they luck out and find someone who doesn’t disgust them after they really get to know them, or maybe they just know how to live with disgust. I don’t know, I’m not one of those people. I’m alone.

Every couple I’ve ever been in or seen up close generated a lot of bitching. I’m not sure why it’s just venting in some circumstances and the harbinger of doom in others, I just know that it all sounds hurty and negative and scary, and I don’t want anything to do with it.

This is what I’ve known: you fall in love, but surprise! it isn’t love it’s just boring old physical lust; you spend a bunch of time together searching for commonality and make a bunch of stuff up that isn’t really there because of your idiot hormones; you move in together; you start to fight; and slowly you begin to realize you’ve hooked up with someone who is {insert any number of character flaws here, from drug addict to clinically depressed to stunted forever at the emotional age of 13 to selfish to borderline abusive to ignorant to lazy}, and whom you discover to your shock is becoming less respectful, loving, or responsive as time goes by, to both you and the structure you’ve entered into together, and it genuinely baffles you.

So you remember all the things you’ve been told about relationships being hard work, and about everybody having a bad day now and again, and about behaving like you would want to be treated yourself, and you do all the adjusting and compromising and picking-up-of-the-slack because you want to love and be loved.

And you think it’s normal, because, hey, your man’s not a bad person, it’s not like he yells or cheats or anything! And you knew getting into it that he didn’t ever “do that Hallmark crap,” so it’s not like you expected anything for that birthday or holiday or anniversary, not even a card or dinner at some tacky pizza place — it wouldn’t need to be a nice restaurant or anything.

And it’s not like you’re some kind of beauty anyway, so there’s no reason for him to tell you you’re pretty, and it’s not like he’s ever done any of that shit before so why expect anything so absurd at this late date. And you’re the woman, right, so it’s kind of your job to sacrifice, right? And ain’t it just like a woman to change the rules, though. Wanting stupid stuff like that.

And so you do the hard work of the relationship in good faith, even as you become more and more hurt and weirder and bitchier and uglier in your heart, right up until the moment he tells you he’s leaving because he never wanted you in the first place, or you dump him for being a very selfish — and ultimately very expensive — prick.

Cue the heartbreak. Rinse and repeat.

So, like:

My very first boyfriend ever, the one from high school who took my virginity, sent me flowers after he’d started banging his roommate and I’d dumped him for it, but not before. A dozen roses delivered to me at work. So much money for nothing. At that point in my life I was so broke I wanted the money more than the soon-to-be-dead and useless flowers.

A college boyfriend stole drugs from my apartment, got caught, and then lied about doing it. Lied right to my face. The drugs I ended up having to pay for myself, of course. First in a very long line of “love”-related expenses for me.

I dated this guy. He had an MBA. He followed me two thousand miles from Iowa to Washington, lived with me (and briefly my family, for fuck’s sake), owned a pickup truck with me, and shared a joint checking account with me. I learned how to make hollandaise for his birthday one year. He told me at the end that he did not love me and that we “weren’t and had never been in a relationship.” He took most of the money we had accumulated and went to India. I haven’t seen him since.

My ex-husband never gave me wrapped gifts. Oh, he bought me things, sometimes — most notably a vintage sewing machine for my birthday very early on, and later an expensive guitar I didn’t want — but there were no flowers, no compliments, no cards. He sometimes brought home crap he’d scrounged, but we never went out on a real date with clean clothes and actual conversation. He didn’t even take me to parties he’d promised to take me to; he’d just fall asleep on the couch instead. I did all his domestic chores for eight years and supported him financially for two and I’m still getting bills he never paid. I’ve been told he thinks I’m a bitch for leaving him.

I’ve cooked and cleaned and been domestic; I’ve worked and earned out in the world. I’ve waxed and shaved; I’ve gone fuzzy and natural. I’ve partied and gone out; I’ve stayed in and been quiet. I’ve learned about all kinds of topics so I could discuss a man’s interests quasi-intelligently.

I’ve adapted and adjusted, I’ve led or obeyed, I’ve been as accommodating as I could and what I’ve learned from it all is that nobody really loves you. Not really. Not like that.

They just want stuff from you — sex, money, dinner, not to take any of this too seriously, jeez, it’s not like we’re married or something — and if you don’t like it, well, you’re selfish. And a bitch.

And your habit of playing your cards close to your chest because you keep getting your feelings hurt, well, that just makes you chilly. And nobody likes that, you frigid bitch.

It’s not like I’m not culpable, getting involved with the people I did — although in my defense, I had no idea it could be any different, and naturally I wanted a partner. I think nearly everyone has that drive. For awhile, at least.

But there’s movies and then there’s real life, and we all know movies are fantasies. Men never act like they do in romantic comedies; it’s all bullshit. Those desires of mine to have at least a little of that kind of tenderness directed at me must be false, or media-driven. It’s impractical, at any rate. You can’t make people do things they don’t want to do.

Forget romance, forget being cared for and taken care of, forget someone wanting you to be happy. The best you can hope for is someone you don’t hate, someone you trust enough to share your finances with. Someone that you can at least stand to be around.

No one’s ever going to come along begging to take care of you. You’ve done your own valve lash adjustments, for fuck’s sake, you can do basic plumbing chores and configure routers, it’s not like you’re helpless. Just find someone to build equity with so you’re not a burden to society later.

Or you can just blow it off and be poor. Make your peace with your future homelessness. At least this way you’re autonomous and you can fuck your life up in your own way and under your own steam and there’s no one there to complain about it. You can do or not do whatever you want with your money, your diet, your manners, your leg hair, and your sleep schedule. There’s no one to take your resources when you least expect it, or demand that you do or not do something with your job or your belly fat or the way you make soup out of the blue one day.

Sure, you miss out on some things, like having someone check up on you when you disappear, or hugs, or someone to reach the serving bowl on the top shelf for you. But you avoid a metric shit ton of grief.

And you’re totally cool with that. Or so you tell yourself. Because, well: you pretty much have to be, don’t you?

And then, bizarrely, at your age, someone actually woos you. For the first time in your life.

For no apparent reason, out of the blue, you meet this human being who laughs at your jokes, and not just until he beds you, but afterwards, too, because he actually thinks you’re funny. And who makes you laugh on a daily basis. And whom you don’t secretly think is dumber than you.

And who says so many things you’ve always wanted to hear that you begin to suspect it’s a trap. Only a bigamist or fraudster would say all that stuff; it sounds like a Hollywood script. Can’t be real. Nobody acts like that in real life.

Except he does. He calls you his best friend, his partner, his beloved. Unprompted. In earnest. All on his own.

And you’re biking down the street and you see nothing but couples. New couples, old couples, attractive couples, ugly couples. Smiling couples, arguing couples. All the cars seem to have two people in them. You wait at the crosswalk eyeing the pedestrians in front of you and they’re all couples. Like couplehood is the natural state of things or some shit.

Your head tells you the first bit is always fun, of course, that it doesn’t mean anything. It always goes to shit later, once the new wears off. But then you’re lying in bed at night whispering on the phone with him, and he tells you things that make your heart feel like it’s a knot being gently untied.

And he does it every night. Every night. For the better part of a year.

So it turns out there’s a huge difference between the absence of cruelty and the presence of kindness.

Everyone I’ve ever been with, I stayed with as long as there was an absence of notable cruelty. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a relationship in the presence of kindness — the presence of love that wants to give rather than merely possess — before in my life.

Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever been in love before at all, upon reflection. I think I’ve been entangled, attracted, distracted, but never before in love.

It’s amazing to find someone who genuinely gives a shit about you, you specifically, in particular, and not just the idea of having a girlfriend, or wife, or source of sex or cooking or money.

Because he’s my best friend, I never hide, I never lie, and I can at any time communicate what’s going on — from weepy gratitude to fierce irritation to diatribes about my general unsuitability for anything to genuine affection and humor and happiness — and he’s there. Right there. Constantly, unstintingly.

None of that “Can we deal with this later, I’m in the middle of GTA” bullshit, or the half-mumbled half-attention ending with that famous lie, “Yeah, sure, I’ll do that for you right away.” He’s always emotionally present. Always. He expresses what he wants, he asks questions if he doesn’t think we understand each other. He’s a fully engaged member of this relationship.

And he — all on his own, with no prompting whatsoever — wants to discuss the relationship. At any time. For any reason. He’ll stop whatever he’s doing at any point and discuss the relationship. He’ll clearly and willingly describe his own flaws and how those mesh or conflict with mine. He’ll admit fault. He’ll promise to work on bad habits. He appears to be, well, a perfectly normal human being. Who wants me.

And we’re both moody as fuck, really, and we both use language like a bludgeon, and we both make absurd blanket statements, and since we’re both stubborn and brainy little nerds sometimes we fight. But it’s okay, because there’s love. Not just physical, either, because we really, really like each other, and we’ve come to need each other, and we love each other. And sure we wanna fuck like bunnies but that’s the smallest part of it.

And for no reason at all, he tells me I’re pretty. He sends me flowers. He calls me pet names and says over and over that he wants to take care of me. He opens doors, carries luggage, pays the checks. He treats me well, and it doesn’t appear to cost him any manliness or contentment, he just does it like breathing. I told him no lover had ever danced with me; within the month we were waltzing on the floating floor in the dining room in our socks.

And neither of us, really, in the grand scheme of things, have much to offer but ourselves, but he wants what I have and I want what he has. We want each other.

It’s fucking wonderful. And heartbreaking and fantastic and scary and nourishing and I can’t remember the last time I even hoped for something like this, let alone believed it was possible. A decade, at least, since I thought about this kind of love in any way that wasn’t, “Eh, it’s all Disney bullshit. People aren’t like that.”

Apparently, sometimes, after your heart has been sufficiently broken, someone sees you just as you are, warts and all, and then — in an act nothing short of miraculous — tells you you’re perfect anyway. Who simply expects you to be surprising and amazing, as all human beings are, and takes it mildly in stride when you’re petty or stubborn or mean, as all human beings are, who owns up to his own occasional moments of stubbornness or meanness and apologizes, just like a normal adult person.

And it’s just like young, stupid, unworldly, unexperienced you always thought it would be: absolutely miraculous.