The asymmetries in love

Comparing yourself with your peers is a potentially very dangerous affair, but it is an easily understandable part of human nature; at the end of the day we only get to live one life and with a statistic of n=1 it is impossible to distinguish the norm from the exception. Looking over the fence at your neighbor's house can give you some idea of where you stand, at least relative to them. Furthermore, when you approach the comparison with the right amount of humility, there is always room to learn something, regardless of the result of the comparison.

When about a year ago my friend Jerzy broke out with his life partner of fourteen years, apart of trying to provide as much support as possible, I could not avoid comparing the history of their relationship with my own marriage. In all honesty, Karen and I had been observing them since they got together so many years ago, because we were never able to understand clearly how they even got in a relationship, let alone share their lives for so long.

Photo: Soggydan Benenovitch

I have known Jerzy for probably twenty years now, and he is definitely the nerdy type: computer engineer, with a talent for math and physics and a very limited attention span with respect to his own looks. His girlfriend, on the other hand, is beautiful and slim, she barely finished high school but is very apt at dealing with people. In fact, for many years she ran the shop of a rural museum where, thanks to her salesmanship she managed to make a decent living for her bosses and for herself by selling to the tourists not only reproductions of works of art but also jewelry. Knowing them and seeing them together I could only conclude that their relationship was grounded on the physical aspect, because they did not seem to share any hobbies, he was always obviously looking for a chance to get intellectual stimulation from Karen and me, and her interests orbited around trading second-hand designer apparel. (Jerzy surrendered long ago one of the rooms in their flat to her collection of coats, handbags and shoes.) In sum, we were completely flabbergasted that their relationship could last more than a few weeks, but it went on and on for years.

Then a few months ago I ran into the description of the so-called "Seven love styles" developed by the website Truity, which is in fact an extension to the original "Five Love Languages" compiled by Gary Chapman in his 1992 book. They theorize that each person has one (or more) way to express their love for another person (his or her language of love) and the key to successful relationships is the tuning between the language that one side "speaks" and the one that the other "can understand". And, very importantly, these languages do not need to be symmetrical: for instance, in the original compilation it was described as perfectly functional a couple where the husband displayed his love by means of gifts, while the wife provided moral support whenever he needed it. (We could go down the rabbit hole of sex equality, but let us just accept for the sake of the present discussion that this kind of relationship can be considered a reciprocally beneficial arrangement between two consenting adults.) The idea resonated with me by the fact that it supported the diversity of the human beings. Each one of us is different, not only genetically but also in our life stories so we all share some needs, but some are peculiar to each of us, and I found quite appealing a theoretical environment that is able to reconcile this diversity.

However, one aspect that is not explained in this theory are the relationships where the investment of time is remarkably unequal, when one person spends their time doing something as a demonstration of the love for their partner while the other is doing something entirely different. One very clear example of this is the elaboration of handicraft of any kind: whether it is a home-cooked meal, a hand-carved wooden statue or a self-knitted scarf, the present is much more than the object that is produced, it includes all the time and effort that went into the planning and fabrication of the object. This has nothing to do with offering the recipient the use of your time as I have discussed in a previous entry, but with the time invested in the gift itself. In fact the knitting community on the internet has coined the term "knit-worthy" to refer to a person that is not only important enough for the knitter to devote so much time but, more importantly, appreciative enough of the effort it takes to knit that piece, so that the recipient will use it proudly and not let it rot at the bottom of a drawer.

Being an avid cook myself, I have a lot of sympathy for that kind of expectation: every time I don the apron I have to remind my sons (even if they are not children anymore) to please take a moment to appreciate the food I cook for them rather than just wolfing it down. So I am not sure if this kind of love should make the cut into Truity's list, but I believe it is not covered by the "practical" manifestation (a meal feeds you regardless of the time invested in it) nor in the "appreciation" (which is more focused on the merit of the person as a whole, not on their actions).

There is still an even more asymmetric flavor of love that is not covered in this collection: all these cases refer to relationships which are voluntary and between people with (at least in principle) equal standing. Parenthood (and its flip side, filial love) does not have either of these: children cannot stop being the offspring of their parents or choose different ones, and parents are equally bound for life to their progeny. Perhaps because of its permanence, the amount of love involved in this type of relationship varies a lot from one family to the next but, even in the best of cases, the asymmetry is very strong: parents usually count on substantially larger experience, knowledge and resources than their children, which is also why the time investment on the relationship is overwhelmingly on their side. The moment they are born the only thing a baby needs to do is to show their discomfort, and it is for the parents to tend to it. As they start to grow up, they slowly gain some autonomy and responsibility, but even when they leave the nest and start a life of their own, parents loom large in the background on the children's minds both as a censor to their choices and as a safety net in case of hardship.

I came to think about this today because over the course of the last couple of evenings I have both cooked dinner for my family and had a deep conversation with Jason, my oldest son, who is adapting to the novelty of studying at the university (even if has decided to stay at home). Both activities were quite consuming and I have to admit that at some point I could not help myself thinking about the time I was putting into them. But then, you see the outcome, the satisfied patting on their bellies after a hearty meal, the sigh of relief after the heart-to-heart, and all doubts melt, and the effort just makes sense. I wish you all have a chance to enjoy such an experience. Have a nice weekend.