This Valentine’s Day I’m getting an ex. Not a brand new one – that would suck. Besides which, like chocolate and flowers it would be something of a cliché…

Did you know that people get dumped in large numbers in February and divorce filings rise by a staggering 40% at this time of the year? Romance may not be officially dead, but in February you’d be forgiven for thinking it was critically ill.
No, no, this is Damien, an ex of long standing – which means that any rough edges have long been eroded by years of friendship.
Last year Damien, like many others, faced the stark choice between staying home and remaining unemployed or leaving for the ends of the earth to seek his fortune. He chose the latter – but by the time you read this, he’ll be home for a holiday and is whisking me off somewhere lovely, although presumably not romantic. Which is all for the best, given that it has been so cold lately and romance tends to end in nakedness.
Valentine’s Day is supposed to be a celebration of romantic love, but what the hell is romantic love anyway? Obviously I have been in love, but it’s not a concept that’s easy to define. Is it a combination of lust and friendship, or something else entirely?
Last year it was Damien that got me thinking about the nature of romantic love, but alas, only theoretically.
One night, on the final countdown to his departure to pastures new, we were having our last supper, which was a somewhat emotional affair. Too much rich food will do that to a person! On the one hand, I was happy that he had a new opportunity and adventure ahead, but on the other I was fairly maudlin and would have been weeping into my dessert like a tragic Victorian heroine except for the fact that it was a crème brûlée and therefore unlikely to be improved by tears.
Since we had reached the end of an era, we were remembering old times. We’d been laughing at how we met, and reminiscing about the places we’d been and things we’d done when I asked Damien a question – “Why did we never fall in love?”
“Dunno,” he replied. Like any Irish male, Damien can talk sport, the economy, politics or shite until your ears bleed, but emotions are a foreign terrain and best avoided.
“It seems such a pity,” I continued. “We’re so good together.”
Perhaps all the food and memories had gone to his head, or perhaps I wasn’t making myself clear.
“Anne, are you in love with me?” he asked.
Well, I was flabbergasted! And here I was thinking he knew me better than that.
“Good Lord no!” I responded, horrified. “Don’t be ridiculous! What I mean is I love you, but I’m not in love with you. But the thing is, all things being equal, I ought to be.”
This is true. On paper, Damien is an excellent match. He’s smart, funny, handsome, well-read and ambitious. All good qualities, sure, which would mean less than nothing if there was no sexual chemistry. But this wasn’t the case.
Once upon a time, somewhere back in the midst of the noughties, when the world was young and camera phones were the height of technological wizardry, Damien and I had many weekends that were spent mostly in bed. If memory serves me correctly, and I am sure it does, the sex was pretty damn great.
You’d think that two healthy folks, both in possession of their right minds and own teeth, who ‘loved’ one another, took delight in one another’s company and had been having plenty of energetic and enjoyable sex, would decide to do this on a regular basis. Instead we’d decided to be friends, because – well, ‘romantic love’, whatever it is, was absent from the equation.
Why? I damn well don’t know. And, frankly, science isn’t much use here either.
Contemporary neurological research has found that lust, attraction and long-term love happen in different parts of the brain. Numerically, these appear to operate along a sliding scale of diminishing quantities. On any given day you can walk through a city centre and see, let’s say, 20 people whose looks appeal to you on a purely physical basis. If you were to talk to them, you’d be lucky if more than two were people you’d consider dating; and the chances are remote that you’d fall in love with any of them. Lust is everywhere, but love is rare.
Functional magnetic resonance imaging – try giving that as a Valentine’s Day gift! – has also found that when people are in love they experience a neuro-chemical buzz, which worryingly enough, is similar to a cocaine high. This is supposed to last around two years, before gradually wearing off and being replaced by mature love if you’re lucky, or anger, boredom and disappointment if
you’re not.
All this is very interesting but doesn’t explain to me why it is possible to have lust, attraction and long-term love without ever having experienced the chemical rush of being in love in the
first place.
The men of my family have decreed that falling in love with a friend is the surest path to romantic happiness. My father, an Irishman, but one who seemed to have missed the memo that feelings were a verboten topic, was fond of saying that he’d married his best friend, by which he meant my mother, not some boyhood mate.
My brother says the same and a lot more besides. Despite being 100% ethnically Irish, he will spew his feelings around in person and all across Facebook, and being a big bloke doesn’t give a damn if his romantic declarations and soppy wall posts make the rest of the world feel decidedly uncomfortable.
It all sounds very sensible – romantic love as a combination of friendship, attraction and sexual passion. But it is not that simple. If it were, I would have had the whole thing sorted years ago. Friendship I’m good at; lust too; and I’m not shabby at love either. It’s ‘in love’ that creates all the problems.
Sometimes I suspect that romantic love is a con, dreamt up by purveyors of cards or carnations, but experience tells me otherwise. I’ve been in love, ergo – it must exist. Which is exactly the argument used by those who believe in God, or have seen angels.
Nice for you, but where’s the proof? That’s the problem with romantic love – if you haven’t felt it yourself, it sounds like a lot of bullshit. Happy Valentine’s Day…