Love (n)

"A temporary insanity curable by marriage or by removal of the patient from the influences under which he incurred the disorder. This disease, like caries and many other ailments, is prevalent only among civilized races living under artificial conditions; barbarous nations breathing pure air and eating simple food enjoy immunity from its ravages. It is sometimes fatal, but more frequently to the physician than to the patient."
~Ambrose Bierce

I am a white picket fence-a-phobe. Yes, I have a fear of those painted wooden objects that encircle and incase a fixed structure. Any gate which latches closed by means of lock and key haunts me. The tiny inch-wide gaps between the wood that provide escape only to the most miniscule of creatures makes the skin on the back of my neck stand at full attention. I am terrified by the lack of vibrancy in the hue and the stark, stale, and oh-so-bleak color of the slabs of wood. Isn’t white the color most often associated with those sanitariums in which people are housed against their will? Most of all, it is the permanence of being captured within which leaves me most terrified.

I used to be one of those girls who placed a commitmentphobe hat on any unmarried guy over 30, and scoffed at the idea of any woman willing to stay with a man too long without some sort of promised commitment. Soon however, the idea of my medium-bristled pink toothbrush sharing permanent placement next to his ‘in dire need of replacement’ blue model, seemed just a little too cozy for my taste. The idea of sharing a closet, wherein my cashmere was scrunched up next to his polyester bowling shirt, just didn’t send waves of excitement rushing over my body. Having to watch him slurp the remaining pink-stained skim milk from his empty bowl of Fruity Pebbles, while I sat reading the Sunday paper, didn’t exactly leave me with the urge to claim myself happily ever after, either. It was then that I realized that the commitmentphobe I had spent the better part of my 20’s mocking, I had myself become.

It’s not that the idea of baking brownies, carting kids to soccer, or living up to my duties as Girl Scout Troop Leader 205, didn’t sound like loads of fun. I just couldn’t seem to get past that gag reflex that seemed to overwhelm my system upon first thought of my life as someone tied down by those commitments.

In the case of men, the notion of commitmentphobia can most often be associated with “the grass is always greener” syndrome. The end of bachelorhood means one woman for all eternity, (or at least until the divorce papers are signed) and the idea is simply too much to handle for the man completely happy with changing women as he changes seasons. I mean, what if he were to settle down, only to find that Giselle or Penelope was vying for his attention? It could happen, you never know!

Where women are concerned, I believe the idea of ‘till death do us part’ has another sort of significance altogether. For the fiercely independent female who perhaps doesn’t relish the idea of cooking for two or three, or god forbid four (there goes that gag reflex again), perhaps the idea of commitment means having to lose herself in the process. The idea of house purchase, kid rearing, and husband catering means being tied down, and most of all, losing the freedom to run at will. Yes, the easiest way to pick a commitmentphobe from a crowd is to simply look for the guy or gal fleeing in the other direction as soon as words that equate to permanence escape the lips of the suitor. They’re the people who all of a sudden become holy at the idea of sleepovers, and you can pretty much forget about getting those concert tickets for December. Booking that far in advance means to a commitmentphobe that they are bound for the 3-month period prior.

I once believed that love was perhaps the commitmentphobe’s cure, but I’m finding that it is in fact the malady. Any forewarning that love may soon be nipping at the heels, sends a commitmentphobe into a state of utter panic. Love, you see, is the beginning of the end, in the minds of those who fear attachment. I knew there was a reason I hated that “first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the old-beyond-her-years, strapped down, ball and chain, pushing the baby in the baby carriage” nursery rhyme. Love means selflessness, partnership, and compromise. It means being bound at the heart, soul, and mind, and perhaps moving to Cleveland, Omaha, or one of those normal middle America towns that definitely IS NOT the Paris or Venice you always dreamed about. It means falling completely smitten with the farmer or accountant when you always thought it would be the next Picasso or Hemmingway. And in most instances, it means that you take up residence within stucco or brick, replete with that darling window seat that gives way to a perfect view of your prize-winning petunias, all bound within the confines of a white picket fence.

Whether we think ourselves far removed from the days of June Cleaver or not, I will uphold the argument that we are still raised and conditioned to believe that establishing roots and settling into a nesting period is simply the norm. Home purchase, and car purchase, and other miscellaneous debt extensions, are the prized additions to a life that reeks success. If I told you that the idea of a retriever named Goldie, a husband named Bob, and kids Bob Jr. and Jenny, all housed within a 4 bedroom/2 bath beauty situated on Sycamore Lane, was not my idea of utopia, wouldn’t you find me a bit odd?