From the Heart
Love hurts. Love stinks. Love is a rose. Love is a many-splendored thing. Love is a can of creamed corn dancing down the kitchen counter with a hat on. Actually, I made that last one up. All the good metaphors and mordant observations were already taken. Love, you see, has been written about once or twice before.
The ancient Greeks distinguished between several types of love, including philia (familial love), agape (love of humanity) and eros (the fun stuff). The early Christians--among them, two saints named Valentine, both beheaded on Feb. 14, thereby apparently encouraging us to exchange funny cards and clever presents on that day--added love of God to the mix.
Modern science breaks things down differently: First, biologists say, we settle on the object of our affections--a choice that may be influenced by “attraction chemicals” called pheromones or the major histocompatibility complex codes found in our DNA or, well, nice buns. Then our brain stimulates production of certain amphetamine-like substances, and we become literally intoxicated by love. This accounts for the familiar symptoms of infatuation, like lightheadedness, rapid heartbeat, inability to concentrate and going to Jane Austen movies.
After weeks or months--or, in some cases, until someone mentions having dinner with Mom and Dad so you can get to know them better--production of the amphetamine-like substances ceases. Now, either it gets really crazy at the office and you have to work late for a while but you’ll call when things quiet down, or you buy a ring. If it’s the latter, pretty soon you get married--or, if you’re old-fashioned, you forget the ring and just move in together, which costs less but you don’t get all those picture frames from Pottery Barn. Once you share a bedroom for a while, your body starts churning out endorphins--analgesic compounds that can function as “attachment chemicals.” These are said to promote feelings of trust, comfort, security and overall warm fuzziness--in other words, love of a less exhilarating but more enduring and satisfying sort. This lasts for exactly seven years, after which you have to start working late at the office again. No, no, just kidding, dear.
What are we to make of all this? Are we slaves to chemistry when it comes to love? Did the pheromones make us do it? Maybe. But if I’ve learned one thing about love over the years, it’s that it doesn’t follow the rules, scientific or otherwise. And just when you think you’ve got it stashed safely on the shelf, it pulls on that sombrero and starts doing the cha-cha-cha right past the Cuisinart.
