To Make a Long Story Short
A Being in Love
©2022 Elder Road Books
Written in 1982
Unpublished
“WHAT WOMAN in her right mind…” I asked my friend, upon reviewing the circumstances of a most unfortunate incident, “…having attained a respectable age of thirty or more years, and having struggled for advancement in her profession, saving and providing for herself over a period of a dozen or more years, would willingly—I repeat, WILLINGLY—sign over her life savings to a joint account, evacuate her apartment, change her name, forfeit continued advancement in her career, and even sacrifice her meagre inheritance to a man of a few short weeks acquaintance (My God! In such an instance, years would be too short.), and in an attitude of adoration approaching worship, allow him to dispose of it as he wished in ‘their joint interest?’ In days past, fraud was prosecuted on less evidence.”
I drew a breath and threatened another sentence that would outlast it.
“Why,” he answered succinctly, “a woman in love, I suppose.”
“Exactly my point,” I ranted on. “I specifically prefaced my question with the words, ‘in her right mind.’ I am of the opinion that a person—man or woman—in love is not in his, her, or their joint right minds.”
Here I hushed my friend who attempted to interrupt before I had finished my rant.
“Furthermore, after a thorough literary survey of some five minutes duration, I have become convinced that love is the result of a chemical imbalance in the affected organism that could probably be corrected through the administration of the appropriate vitamins, a change in diet, or perhaps even by a good chiropractor.”
Now, gentle reader, you might take this as the ranting of bitter old man who has loved and lost. And loved and lost. And loved and… You get the idea. And, indeed, I have experienced the throes of ecstasy and have been convinced that this one was surely the last one and I would be with her forever. You might be partially correct. But the lovelorn should somehow be protected from themselves.
You may question my research, for I’m only reciting works off the top of my head. The body of literature demonstrating the chemical addictiveness of love is vast. I hold there is more physics to be learned in the classics than in all our volumes of science.
Tell me, if you can, was Oberon ignorant? Here is a being who knew of a flower, the juice of which would so affect a person when squeezed into her eyes that she would instantly fall in love with the first creature that was seen, whether it be man, woman, or beast. Fancy Titania doting over the ass-man-creature Nick Bottom! An illness! And Oberon further knew of an antidote that would restore his victim to ‘right wits’ once he had from her what he wanted.
And is not Cupid armed with arrows? Arrows, I submit, are an ancient and universal symbol of affliction. Consider any painting of the martyrdom of the strong and masculine St. Sebastian, always rendered as a desirable object of affection, pierced by many arrows, and falling in love—IN LOVE—with St. Irene, who then encouraged him to tempt death a second time by taunting Diocletian.
Finally, why was it that the gods of Olympus forbade the eating of mushrooms? Of course! Because they are an aphrodisiac! Consuming mushrooms would drive a person out of his wits. He would fall in love. Having just elevated humanity from the mud, why risk madness among them?
Oh, yes, there are more. Consider Adam and Eve, David and Bathsheba, all the romantic poetry of the 19th century. Positively, all cases of chemical imbalance, probably originated in a hormone deficiency.
Would I, then, propose to outlaw love?
Heavens, no! I said it was an ailment, not a crime. And not only that, but it is addictive. Having once been in, there is always the subliminal longing to be there again. We need emergency kits of Naloxone to inject those in love before they tie the knot in marriage. Having once been in love, there is always the subliminal longing to be there again. Once having sworn never to love again, I find my resolve hacked from beneath me with one smooth blow from this or that attractive woman. I find myself pining for love at the very scent of perfume lingering in an empty room. And staid and severe old man that I am, I find my heart leaping at a glancing touch. Hopelessly addicted.
I ask only that we consider this: We have hospitals for the ill, incarceration for the criminal, treatment for the alcoholic, social security for the aged. We need protective laws for the lovesick. Those who are in love ought not be allowed to take steps that may alter the future.
For example, those who are in love ought not to be allowed to marry, to have joint checking accounts, to change beneficiaries on life insurance policies, to alter wills, to have children, or any other long-term agreement without first proving they are not in love and are therefore in their right minds.
I rest my case.
“But Ari,” my friend said, “love makes the world go round. God is love. Love your neighbor as yourself. Love is strength.”
“Too much strength is a weakness,” I interrupted. “Where I am concerned, I’d happily abide by my own law, if only I was allowed to fall in love as often, as hard, as deep, as sweet, and as painful as I wished.”
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