The Concept of Love

"Philip?" she said shyly, teasing his penis with the tip of her nail. In the next second, he was on top of her again. Lola opened her legs, and after he'd come and was lying on top of her, exhausted, she whispered, "I think I love you."

When I got to "she whispered", I immediately knew what Lola was going to say. I found myself yelling aloud "NO! DON'T SAY IT! DON'T EVEN... NO, LOLA, DON'T." Then I read the words "I think I love you". I released an exasperating sigh, called Lola stupid, and found myself - at least for a split second - hating the concept of love. It led to an overwhelming feeling of compulsion/repulsion of love - I wanted nothing to do with it, good or bad. As fast at it came, it disappeared. I think I will always be a romantic at heart, hoping and wishing for "happy endings".

I've been trying to dissect my emotions, but... What is the concept of love? Being "in love", I thought I would immediately know the answer. Alas, I don't think I'm the least bit worldly enough to answer such a question.

Lola didn't get the answer that she wanted.

His head jerked up and he looked at her with surprise. Smiling and kissing the tip of her nose, he said, "'love' is a strong word, Lola."

But she did get bagels instead.

- EXCERPT FROM 'ONE FIFTH AVENUE' BY CANDACE BUSHNELL

Not Safe In Taxis

Long ago when I was a teenager, my mum and I talked about men in her youth who she labelled NSIT - Not Safe In Taxis.

What is a man who is NSIT?

Men who were very gentlemanly on dates but lady killers in a taxi when escorting them home. You know the seductive types, they slip in close next to you, a warm hand on thigh, their breath on your neck, waiting for that perfect opportunity of you turning to look at them so they can catch your lips with theirs. If you get of the taxi, you've lost the battle completely, because they're going to pull you into their warm embrace and push you over the edge with that goodnight kiss. Of course it was never a goodnight kiss, was it? We've all been in that position, not that it's a bad position to be in - you're both attracted to each other, so why not reward each other with pleasure?

It's something every young woman in her twenties needs to know - call it vital information.

The Mirror Has Two Faces

As I stood at the altar beside my sister and her husband-to-be, it struck me that this “ritual” called a wedding ceremony is really just the final scene of a fairytale.

Nobody ever tells you what happens after the ritual though.

Nobody ever tells you that Cinderella drove Prince Philip crazy with her obsessive need to clean the castle (because she missed her day job, right?).

Nobody ever tells you what happens after because...there is no after.

The be-all and end-all of romantic love was/is marriage. Marriage, that's right.

But it wasn't always like that...

Around the 12th century there was a notion called courtly love where love had nothing to do with marriage and nothing to do with sex. In most cases it was defined as a passionate relationship between a knight and a lady of the court who was already married; and so they could never consummate their love. They would have to rise above your ordinary (you know, going to the bathroom in front of each other kind of love) and find something more divine. They took sex out of the equation and what was left was a union of souls.

Now think of this: sex was always the fatal love potion.

Look at the literature: 'Lancelot and Guinevere', 'Tristan and Isolde' (for examples) - all consummation could lead to was madness, despair, or death!

Clinical experts, scholars, and my Aunt Esther are united in the belief that true love has spiritual dimensions while romantic love is nothing but a lie...an illusion...modern myth...a soulless manipulation.

Speaking of manipulation...

It's like going to the movies to see a romance film, when we see the lovers on screen kiss, the music swells, and we like it, right? So that makes you think when my date takes you home and kisses you goodnight, if I don't hear the philharmonic in my head, you dump him!

Now the question is: why do we buy it?

We buy it because whether it's a myth or a manipulation, let's face it: we all want to fall in love.

Why?

Because that experience makes us feel completely alive! Where every sense is heightened, every emotion magnified, where our everyday reality is shattered and flung into the heavens!

It may only last a moment, an hour, or an afternoon...but it doesn't diminish its value because we're left with memories that we treasure for the rest of our lives.

I read an article a while ago that says when we fall in love we hear Puccini in our heads. I love that. I think it's because his music fully expresses our longing for passion in our lives and romantic love. And while we listen to La Boheme or read 'Wuthering Heights' or watch 'Casa Blanca'...a little bit of that love lives in us too.

So the final question is: why do people want to fall in love when it can have such short shelf life and be devastatingly painful?

It leads to the propagation of the species? Psychologically, we need to connect to somebody? Because we're culturally pre-conditioned? Good answers but much too intellectual for me.

I think it's because, as some of you already may know, while you have it...it feels fucking great!

Ladies, here's a fact for you.

I learned something new today:

On average menstruation starts at the age of twelve and ends at the age of fifty two.

Let's think about this for the minute.

Forty years of periods means... Four hundred and eighty periods, times that by an average length of five days...that’s two thousand four hundred days of bleeding, or six point fifty eight years of blood.

After telling me this, Suzie turned to me and said, "think of all the people you could drown in nearly seven years worth of blood..." The thought of drowning in thick, gloopy blood made me gag.

I don’t understand why tampon adverts always show girls on their period dancing and wearing white skirts and making out with someone and stuff.

Surely a more effective advertising campaign would be a bunch of girls in various states of misery.

Like, curled over in bed going "WHHHHY?!" and eating chocolate on the sofa and sobbing at the end of 'The Notebook' and getting angry at not being able to open a jar and crying when the cat doesn’t want to cuddle.

Followed by: ‘We understand. We’re sorry. Let us make it a little less awful.’

And the wrapping shouldn’t be like pink with polka dots, it should be dinosaurs stepping on buildings and stuff.

I'm going to sound like a total girl here, but, I need some new dancing shoes! Mine are completely wrecked. Completely. Wrecked. And they were the most perfect, gorgeous, comfy pair of high heels ever. I'm going to mourn over my shoes now.