Love, Defined... or Not.

What is love? 

(Baby don't hurt me, baby don't hu… oh you sonofabitch.)

Earworming you is growing far too easy.

(That's not even a real verb!)

I know. But if earworm made it into modern vernacular, so too should the derivative verb. Back to the question: What is love? Dictionary.com says it’s a "profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person." I say dictionary.com missed the proverbial love boat on this one.

(The love boat, exciting and ne…. DAMMIT! Stop that!)

*snicker* 

My point is that I think this definition is neither adequate, nor accurate. Let's break it down to its components, backwards.

(Why backwards?)

You'll see. Stop interrupting. Now, breaking down the definition backwards, we start with the following: "for another person." Yes, yes indeed one can love another person. I take issue, however, with this definition limiting the notion to simply caring for another human being. I love many people, but I love a great deal more. I love my dog. She brings a joy to my life and makes me smile every single day. When she leaves this world I will be, indubitably, heartbroken. Memphis means more to me than most people I know because she bestows upon me an unconditional love that few others can give. However…. She's four-legged, furry, and has been known from time to time to eat my socks and poop in the dining room, ergo not a "person."

(I've known people that have done stranger things….)

Touché, pussycat. Ok, then, she has no opposable thumbs.

(Better.)

Thank you. Continuing… I also love the game of hockey. Love it. LOVE IT. There is something invigorating and awakening about the game to me. I love to watch it, and love playing it even more. At the age of forty-one I still cannot give up my passion for the game. I am four games into my men's league season, and through four games I have five points, including two goals and three assists. I feel great playing, and it makes me happy. Who wouldn't love something that makes you feel that way? And… that makes a perfect segue way to the next component of the definition.

Love as defined above requires a "passionate affection." For hockey, I am passionate. For my Jeep, bacon… passion. For the woman who will eventually, finally steal my heart, you better believe there will be passion. And yes, ladies, now that George Clooney is off the market, I have reluctantly accepted the mantle of next-most available, distinguishedly greying bachelor. Now accepting applications.

(Distinguishedly is not a word!!)

Well, it should be. Anyway… I am passionate about these things, but is it really a passionateaffection? I suppose, in a way. When I think passionate affection, however, I think of gazing in a woman's eyes until my cheeks flush. I think of losing my breath in that millisecond before her lips touch mine. I think of that moment when I hold a woman close and cannot help but to shut my eyes, breathe deeply, and revel in her warmth. THAT, my friends, is passionate affection. I mean, I'm passionate about my Jeep, but I don't, you know, whisper sweet nothings to it or anything. It is, after all, a machine. And it's difficult to be profoundly tender with a machine. 

(Nice transition.)

Thanks. I love. I love truly, deeply, to my core and with every fiber of my being… but not all my love is given with profound tenderness. I love the Buffalo Sabres. I do not want to cuddle with them. Have you ever smelled a hockey player's equipment? Seriously, my own gear makes me gag sometimes. Nothing tender there. Likewise, you put a plate of bacon in front of me, and I'll swoon, but I'm not going to hug it and squeeze it and call it George.

(Looney Tunes classic. Nice.)

I thought you'd like that. Now here's what I think: Love cannot be defined.

(I agree with you. Wait… dammit. Not again.)

There's a reason my deal, parenthetically heckling representative of my readers' thoughts, that you agree with me. Many of you often feel the same way I do, but I'm the only idiot dumb enough to put the thoughts down on paper for all the word to see.

(We appreciate that.)

My pleasure. No, love cannot be defined. It's amorphous. It's nebulous. It's far reaching and soul-baring. It's a creature that both claws at your heart, and soothes it. How can you put a label on that? Still… I know that someday, hopefully soon, I will share a profoundly tender, passionately affectionate moment with another person. For that moment, I'll let love be defined…. And we'll see where it goes from there. Until then….

Love the one with you're with, whatever, or whomever, that may be.

(You just Stephen Stilled us, didn't you?)

Yup. 

(You're a right bastard. I'm going to be singing that all day now.)

Most likely. But you still love me.

© 2014 J.J. Goodman. All rights reserved.