In the history of modern civilization traditionally men are the quantifiers.
They are the measurers, the classifiers, the archivists.
The job of putting definitions around the world and its' inhabitants has fallen to them.
Even in this day of equality of the genders, men are apt to be accountants, historians, and researchers.
It is the man with specialized training that takes data and tells the rest of us what to think of it.
While I am sure there are a good many women who also do this for a living, odds are when it comes to defining things it is a man doing it.
Then why oh why do women always have to tell us they love us.
Unlike men it is not just before climax, but daily, repetitively, on the phone, before bed, before going to their job that doesn't require defining things; they must define this feeling about their man.
I once thought it was just me.
I was just that loveable.
But throngs of pissed off women with darts in their eyes, and spittle on their retracted lips have uttered volleys of spewed hatred my way too.
I guess they were defining that feeling as well.
In short, it is imperative women let their man know if they love them or hate them.
This feeling needs oration and definition.
That is all good and fine; I could live with that aberration of character.
The hatred part only really needs defining once in a relationship, because after that the relationship is over, unless of course you are married to the cursed one.
And then there are untold 'I hate you's' coming your way.
But since I am uncommitted, after a heated display of hatred, I am at once at peace with the women's definition, of her feelings, I appreciate the clarity.
From there I can go on my merry way.
But the constant love proclamation requires something else, and we all know what that is, a retort.
My first reaction is I know, and I have told you the same thing.
You complain that I am repetitive, that I tell you the same stories about losing my pants, or running from some girl's dad.
Well, you have told me the same thing nineteen times this week alone.
Have you really forgotten?Do you not listen to me?But that is not what they want to hear.
They want to hear the same thing in return.
They are asking to be told you love them, and instead of asking they are cueing you, just like Mrs.
Gifford did in the third grade production of Mary Poppins.
Only I haven't forgotten my line, I just don't think it is necessary.
Nothing has changed since the last time I said it.
And the last time I said it without prompting, was during a four day getaway, when I felt it.
I love you surged through me like a force of nature.
At that moment in time, I was overwhelmed to be with you sharing that moment.
Love was an event and we were the participants.
I looked at you, and I said it.
And that should be when it is said.
Love was a veil our entire world was filtered through it, and everywhere we went, everything we touched, everyone we talked to felt it.
Saying it then is not as a throwaway like 'have a good day.
'Orating it so cheaply belittles it.
By using the three words as a constant reinforcement, like a shock collar, she is taking the easy way out.
She does not have to show it, or create the feel of it; she just has to say it.
There done.
It is lazy and destructive.
If you want to kill love, define it, constantly.
Parade those three words around cheap as 'have a nice day.
'Summarize this indefinable thing ad nauseum, like an NFL show, replaying the same touchdown until it looks like anyone could have hurdled those six linebackers.
Take the very thing that makes love special and kill it with ordinariness.
Man has been doing that with all kinds of things for years, taking the magical and reducing it to the mundane.
But when it comes to love, it is the woman who has done it.
I love you, I love you, I love you, now go to the mall with your thousand other girl friends who just threw that bone to their spouse or boy friend and over a skinny latte complain about the lack of romance in your life.
But don't wonder out loud to me when you are disappointed that the magic is gone.
You can only pull so many rabbits out of the hat of expectations, before they all blur together.