This week I asked one my coworkers whether or not she believed in romantic love. When she said she did not, I wanted to high five her in agreement, but I held my peace.
Immediately after my last girlfriend left, I renounced any and all ideas of love. I figured that if three years was not a strong enough bond to keep us together forever, then love had to either be a social construct or a delusion to keep people from not going insane when they are alone. I tried to convince myself that all the kisses given and smiles shared were just that, and they did not represent a higher plane of existence nor a happier state of being. Love is not real.
It’s been almost 4 years since my last relationship, and now, more than ever, I am convinced that love is real. One of the greatest joys of watching romance blossom in movies is how happy I get when a couple finds it. I am there with them, in the awkward hand holding and passionate kissing; I am grinning from ear to ear when they confess their love to each other, and feel the life go out of me when their relationship crumbles. I believe in love because I think it makes people happier. It doesn’t necessarily turn a sad person into a happy one, but it does bring things into their lives which make it feel more exciting. And if your life has more excitement, there is a slight chance you will go to your work nervous or giddy, which is much better than the monotony which we fall prey to far too often.
So I told the coworker I disagreed. I believe in love.
I may not have it yet, and perhaps I never will again. I am learning to live without it, and while admittedly difficult from time to time, I think it’s perfectly possible to remain single for the remainder of your life.
But don’t get me wrong. Love makes it better.