Most of you have probably played pinball in your life. My erratic experience of “love” with a person outside my kith and kin has always been much like watching a game of pinball: unpredictable and all over the place.
When I was young, I was infatuated with the idea of infatuation. I like to conveniently blame cheesy romantic movies for this. For hours at length, I would ogle the magical and exciting love that the lead actress would dream about, and fortunately for her, Prince Charming would be at the doorstep the next morning.
What I failed to realize, however, is that movies leave out so much about realistic love. Stirring false hope in the hearts of little girls, Disney forgot to mention that sometimes Prince Charming just doesn’t show up. Sometimes Cinderella is a blithering mess, and the fairy godmother may not be around to wave her magical wand.
So, in stage one of this bewildering experience of “love,” I was downright delusional, immature and had no idea what I was in for. Nevertheless, I bathed in an emotion I can only describe as pure childish excitement. At that point of time, the only thing I knew about the feeling was that it was new. There was anxiety and giddiness. As an early teen, I played hide and seek, hiding from the bitter truth and seeking joyful memories.
For a few years, I was successful at this game of hide and seek. Then a meteorite called puberty hit my world and everything went into state of absolute mayhem. The game was no longer fun like it used to be. I was juggling a thousand things at once — trying to balance school work, social life and responsibility toward family. There was slim chance of fitting in a love life between all that.
But my childhood feelings circled back and hit me like a flaming ball of fire. In high school, every trivial detail tends to be magnified and overthought. Self-consciousness and society’s expectations zeroed in on me. A person I was beginning to have a special connection with became a stranger. It all felt like an act, like one of those cheesy romantic movies minus the romance, and we were the playing the lead roles. Finally, it was over. Lesson learnt. Chapter closed.
Wrong. The chapter never really closed. I was in my senior year at high school, dedicated to my dream of being a writer, basking in the bliss of being single. I had come a long way since the hide-and-seek days, and I felt more confident and mature. What do mature people do when it comes to love? They accept the people and situations they are in and they nurture friendship with their past mistakes. I too began thinking the same way. If love didn’t work out, we can surely give friendship a try.
There were three months left to depart for college, and I added this name to the top of my list of friends. I discovered a new part of myself — a happier, more carefree person. The magic was, in fact, real; Disney may be right about some things. I was so busy treasuring the precious moments that I didn’t realize that time was slipping away.
What would a mature person do? Stop when needed and think practically about the future. Fortunately, my maturity went flying out the window as I fell in love with the idea of love for the third time. This time, it was serious. There were big, heavy words involved, like commitment and trust. I was in a tug of war, being pulled by the intensity of a relationship at one end and the college dream I had at the other. Compromise was the only thing I could think of to continue my commitment to the recent developments. Soon, I was twisting in the backseat of my car, waving goodbye to my first, second and third idea of love, and saying hello to long-distance.
Long-distancing was probably the most difficult thing I have done in my life. I wasn’t even that committed to feeding my cat every day. The good thing is that living in a different time zone makes your math better. Yet, as some lovesick romantic said, love is timeless. My experience of long-distancing changed my idea of love again. Time and distance aren’t only topics you learn about in physics; they hold real meaning when it comes to being in a relationship.
In this stage of my life, all I know for sure is that love is like an amoeba. It has a different meaning for different people in different stages of their life. It can be musical for some, animated for another. Confusing for some, and simple for others. For me, the idea of love evolved slowly through the years and still continues to do so. With every experience, I learn and grow as a person. One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned is sometimes you have to let go. If the love was really yours, it comes back to you.