couples only
on the fallacy of true love, as seen through some cheesy chicago lyrics
I was eight years old when I first heard Chicago’s “Colour My World” but I didn’t really pay much attention to it until years later when it was played during the “couples only” portion of the night at the roller rink. I remember sitting on the sidelines in my skates, knowing no one was going to ask me to get out on the floor with them to hold hands while we skated around in circles to the pretty piano melody. I sighed deeply during the song, and wished I would find someone who would write a song like that for me. I was thirteen.
I could not imagine being that in love with someone, or having someone be that in love with me. My teenage idea of what love is was warped by music and soap operas and romantic books with happy endings and I expected that all love was like this, that once you fell, you fell hard and you declared your passion and love for each on an ongoing basis. I saw love as an all consuming thing, an emotion that hovered at the surface. People could see it in your face; you glowed with joy all the time. You smiled a lot. Your eyes would light up at the mere mention of your beloved’s name. There was a certain devotion to this love I had dreamed up, as if your partner existed only for you, only to please you and love you and cherish you.
I believed that everyone found a love like this in their lifetime, that there was one particular match out there for every human being, and life and your heart would guide you to them. When Peter Cetera sang “now, now that you’re near/promise your love that I’ve waited to share” that’s what he was talking about. Finding your one true love.
I thought I found my true love a hundred times. It was Jimmy from around the corner, a cute jock who showed a modicum of interest in me. It was Kerry, the hottest boy in seventh grade who would surely look past my mediocre looks to see that I was the one for him. It was the adorable Canadian exchange student who would surely give up his citizenship to stay here with me and listen to Steely Dan while we held hands and talked about our future.
And then there was Bobby, a high school freshman I met when I was a junior. Bobby was my first lesson in “be careful what you ask for. He was devoted; he constantly declared his love for me, he called me every night and sang songs to me while he played the guitar. He brought me roses to school and made up t-shirts that said “Bobby & Michele” in glittery letters. It was everything I had been looking for and, it turns out, nothing I wanted. That kind of “love” was claustrophobic and just too much for me. I felt attached to Bobby, glued to him against my will. I broke up with him after he sang Toto’s “Hold the Line” to me on the phone while I was on a family vacation in Florida. I had found my “Colour My World” love - a guy who existed only to please me - and I hated it.
I tempered my vision of love after that. I decided that true love would leave enough room for me to breathe and adjusted my expectations accordingly. I no longer took my cues from romantic songs or books, that was pure folly. I realized that all of my previous bouts with being in love were nothing more than teenage crushes. I knew nothing about love and I realized that “Colour My World” was more a case of someone writing a song meant to appeal to the masses than it was the writer’s view of a relationship.
I went through a succession of long term relationships. One of them ended in a broken engagement. Three of them ended in divorce. To say I know nothing of love is an understatement. I still don’t know what true love really means, or if it is a thing that exists. I see people together in marriage for over sixty years and I wonder if they have found that elusive love, or if they just settled into a comfortable relationship of give and take.
I know what true love isn’t. I know it’s not smothering your partner. I know it’s not demanding things of your partner. I know it’s not conditional. And I know that at this stage in my life I might not ever find out.
I thought I had it, true love. I thought I was in a relationship that would last until the death of one of us. I thought I found that perfect balance of friendship and love, that we saw each other as equal but separate, each with our own interests outside of each other so that there was some breathing room, some space to grow, perhaps to grow deeper in love as the years went on. Alas, it was not to be. I was left confused, bewildered, knowing less about love than I had my entire life. I questioned everything, blamed myself, decided that I was unworthy of someone devoting themselves to me, even if devotion was not entirely what I wanted.
I listen to a lot of love songs, but I listen more to songs about people who have fallen out of love, or have been hurt by a pursuit of such. Those songs seem so much more part of reality to me; they speak to experiences I’ve had. Where “Colour My World” never could reach me now, Coldplay’s “The Scientist,” with its yearning for something that no longer exists, with its refrain of “nobody said it was easy
no one ever said it would be this hard,” practically attacks me.
I’m sixty years old, and I’ve given up on the idea of true love for myself, if mainly because I no longer believe a perfect love exists. I’d love a companion, someone to travel with and go out to dinner with, maybe a movie. But I am no longer looking for someone to whisper Peter Cetera lyrics into my ear. Songs like that are best left for the roller rink, for when the “couples only” sign lights up and young people who still believe in love skate hand in hand, sure that they have found the one.