Can you truly be in love with someone? In order to really answer that question we need to unpack the definition of love. There are so many definitions but the truth is that love can only be defined personally. Having said that in my opinion, love is something around the feel good, happy go lucky department. Another words love does not equate to hurt. Love has no correlation to pain. Love in its utopian state is a euphoric state of mind, or condition? The all true reality is love is a thin line between in Infatuation and in lust?
I have been in love, in infatuation and in lust a number of times in my well experienced existence on earth. Honestly speaking the biggest wake up call when I fell out of love, infatuation or lust came with the realisation in the end that I did not even know which one had been applicable in that particular context.
My biography of love, infatuation, lust goes like this: first there was Miss Spinks grade 3, with her waist length brown hair, deadly mini skirts, extremely pale skin and endless legs one of which had what I consider now to be an unsightly round brown birthmark. True reflection of that experience is I wanted to be Miss Spinks when I grew up along with the extremely pale skin, a feat that would have required an MJ makeover; the endless legs, who knows Miss Spinks could well have been 5.2 like me but to a 3rd grader who numbered the shortest in the class she could have easily been magnified in stature; the waist length, hair, aha, that one – achieved thanks to the miracle called the weave!
Then there was the boy in grade 3 still who lived in this furry grey coat which for some reason he would not remove even in the classroom which was adequately heated with central heating. Well he got hit by a car crossing the street after school and the only way I knew it was him was by the heap of grey fur lying on the road. I thereafter identified him with the song ‘Silent Night’ because that was the song Miss Spinks kept forcing us to sing over and over again that particular day and it was still ringing in my mind as I made my merry way home when I spied the heap of grey fur on the ground. My analysis of the reason I felt a particular allegiance to the guy in the grey furry coat was that although I prsonally found him to be noisy and a severe pain in the butt, he was popular and considered cool even in his unsightly grey furry number.
Then at age 14, there was the “28” year old guy with the dreadlocks who looked dangerously like Bob Marley and had a smooth Jamaican swag, whom I used to sneak and meet to hang out with at Kennedy Park behind my snoopy mother’s behind. A type who, by the way would not be classified at all as my type even at age 16 and beyond, and who in retrospect now I recognise as a possible pedophile and have thanked God many times that my mother finally caught me being walked home and threatened the hell out of that guy, preventing what he was most likely working methodologically on to mount to naught. I put that experience to loving the total attention of an elder who had the time to listen to my utopian dreams, mentally warped poetry, and at the same time complimented my beauty constantly at a stage in my life when baby clothes stop fitting and pre-adolescence clothes leave major fashion gaps. The question I am asking now is what the hell was a 28 year old guy with a smooth Jamaican swag doing hanging around at the local park when all the other elders were nowhere to be seen at that time of day?
The same applies to the 21 year old immature, challenged man who gave me a diamond engagement ring at age 16 the day before I left for university in a State thousands of miles from New York, as purposely designed by my parents. Praise God, I could have been the long suffering, degreed wife of a silver Cadillac driving, chain smoking Part time DJ, full time whatever job he said he did that was connected to shifts, husband, and a mother of two living in his parent’s customised basement epitomising the all American dysfunctional family as a constantly nagging baby momma about how I gave him what was supposed to be preserved for that special Mr Right who probably only showed up in movies such as “Best Man” among others!
Then there was the university hook up. Absolutely gorgeous, white teeth, fitted beautifully in his mouth, manly hands, athletic, mind you this was the union of two athletic people, wavy hair packed neatly to his perfect head, brown twinkling eyes, smooth deep voice and he could sing too?! This was the man who came on open day in my freshman year, walked up to very stuck up me, at a party where I refused every dance request to literally sweep me not off but to the dance floor where I danced every song with him until the day broke and he gracefully and casually leaned over in his grandure and muscular stature to whisper in my ear, a whisper which literally sent shivers down my spine, that when he comes to school in the fall I would be his girlfriend. Yeah right, smooth move, enjoy your trip home! The following fall semester I found myself the girlfriend of this magnificence to the charange bitterness and ferociousness of the line backer who had talked himself into believing I was the future Mrs. This particular volatile, proof that hell hath no fury, “Diary of a mad black woman” style, toxic, totally taxing, nearly removed all shreds of my self confidence, waiting for a bomb to explode relationship took me years to get over and threatened my trust in anything male. Then he had the nerve to try to resurrect this dangerous liaison a number of times, finally with a letter on bright yellow lined paper from Germany, those were the days before facebook, twitter, sms, and whatsApp, strategically delivered into my hands by my matron of honour a week before my dream wedding day followed up by a landline call, where he got my number from is not rocket science, talking about, “please don’t marry him, we are made for each other”. Ok, I confess, there was a momentary wavering before I remember how potent in toxicity the past had been. Shoot, I went ahead and jumped that broom, keeping that letter with me until it was found one day and not by the maid but by my bitter better half. It was then disposed of not by me but my insecure bitter better half in disgust using Lions matches as the tool of destruction.
The sum total of all this accumulation of experience which resulted eventually to nil got me pondering what the components of love are. What are the indicators that define one as in love and distinguishes one from in infatuation and redeems one from in lust.? I personally do not have an answer not even one that relates to my particular context.
I can however tell you what in my analysis verbalises what love is not. It has no geographical specification, why? My geographical spread in terms of experience I can comfortably say spreads through the Americas, Asia, Europe, the horn and east, west,central and, southern Africa, the principles regarding the fine divide between love, infatuation and lust remains the same. It is not religion specific, in my limited analogy, the defining factors are the same no matter what affiliation. It appears perpendicular in nature to in infatuation and in lust but is distinctive in its pre -situational deterioration of the cell stems that disturb the natural balance of the brain and burns the core of the nerves.
The only reprieve that I can offer to all of you who are reading this in the hope of finding some redemption in your own situation is a mere carrot stick that, yes, in all of this historical chaos I finally found the one, the only one who was privy to the fact that I have a gap in my front teeth!