A Sobering Realisation

Double entendre postcard. "All right boss...

Double entendre postcard. “All right boss, tell her did’nt you send me to Miss Jone’s room to pick up her skirt!” (sic) The word “CLEANERS” is written backwards on the room’s plate-glass window. Note that if the boss had intended that meaning, he would actually have been more likely to say “Lift up her skirt”… (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I woke up one morning with a woman’s probable scorecard for a man in my mind’s eye. It was a postcard sized notebook thing that had three headings, each for the role a man has to play in her life. It read as follows:

1) Husband
2) Friend
3) Sex Toy

It brought something of a smile to my face. It seems quite a comprehensive list of roles a man has to fulfill. I would think the requirements are pretty stringent too. Like the dreaded IPPT, failure in one component will mean an overall failure.

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[+ve] Love is an asymptote

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credit: .craig (flickr)

So Abby and I were chatting, (on Whatsapp) and off on a irrelevant (but always fun) tangent again over her lunch.

At some point, I mentioned the oft-heard cliche: One doesn’t know true love until it’s gone.

‘That’s so SAAAD’ she replied.

Yeah, I thought. That is sad.

But perhaps I would like to retract what I said. Perhaps what I meant to say was, one will never know true love, period.

True love is an asymptote. It’s that line that an exponential curve approaches but never reaches. And if you think that too is sad, I beg to differ.

There is a certain beauty in never being able to know true love, but to always be approaching it. The same way lingerie tantalises, true love being always just out of reach might just be what keeps the flame alight. It is what will keep love songs playing, florists in business, and people in love.

The things we do for love are silly in many ways. Indeed, some might ask, why reach for something one can never achieve? Where’s the point in that? The point, I think, is in the pursuit. The joys are unforgettable, the despair often near-insurmountable. That in itself is what makes it exquisite.

And that’s not even the point.

If everything we did needed to have ‘a point’, we’d be a mighty boring race. That, I assert, we are not. Some things we must do just because.