There is a line of romantic advice that goes something like, “Don’t marry the one you can live with, marry the one you can’t live without.”
It’s a statement that’s meant to be profound in its simplicity, but the more I hear it and read it and think about it, the more I think it’s a huge load of poo. It reeks of soulmate-ism and conjures pictures of a bedraggled, dehydrated man crawling wearily through the desert until he finds a miraculous pool of refreshing water, upon which all of his problems disappear.
What if you got married, and the next day your spouse died? Are you going to keel over and expire because your sole tether to the mortal realm had passed on? But those are the kinds of logical results you get when you subscribe to overemotionality. More importantly, how, exactly, had this person managed to live prior to discovering your precious existence? That is truly one of the great mysteries of the universe.
This statement would hold more water if it said marry the one you don’t want to live without.** That’s what marriage really is, isn’t it? Voluntarily choosing someone over all others every day until one of you croaks. That’s the real love right there, not lofty paeans to volatile passion.
**The implication is that the feelings are mutual. Otherwise, a restraining order is in your future.