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This is perpetually my favourite metaphor for love, mostly because there are any number of inane, improbable AND perfectly logical reasons that love might, indeed, be considered rodeoesque:

… there are more clowns than cowboys
… you’re always up to your ankles in shit
… if it lasts longer than eight seconds, you get a prize
… the tighter the jeans, the better it is?

There are a million more, really, but a great many of them involve getting bucked, and we don’t want to go there, do we?

Love is one of those emotions that people tend to make giant sweeping statements about, usually beginning with phrases like, “at the end of the day…” and “when it all comes down… ” and “what really matters is… ”

I used to make those types of statements, in fact.

Well, actually, I still do, but only shortly before I smack myself in the head.

Wisdom about love is pretty rare. It usually comes from really old people, and even then sometimes the advice is completely inapplicable/unhelpful/trite. I know that sounds like a harsh thing to say — REVERE YOUR ELDERS, UNGRATEFUL ONE — but an extra fifty years doesn’t necessarily give you a lock on what it takes to love someone.

Resignation? Yes. Respect for commitment? Yes. Tradition? Yes. Wrinkles and bladder inconsistencies? You betcha.

But I don’t know that time teaches us everything we need to know, or that it heals all wounds, or that it’s on my side, or whatever. Wait, what was I saying?

Not all successful, long-term relationships (depending on how you define success) are based on love, anyway. And love is not a guarantee of a successful relationship.

It’s just one colour out of a million that make up our mosaic bonds (cue the violins.)

We all experience love differently because of who we are, what we’ve been through, what we want, and what we are willing to give and take.

So what’s my point in all of this?

It is an incredibly freeing thing to admit you don’t understand how love works.

To admit that you’re not sure how to make it work.

To admit that making it work is fairly annoying at times.

To admit that you feel it when you shouldn’t, and don’t feel it when it seems like you should.

To admit that it breaks you, to admit that it heals you, to admit that sometimes… you forget what it does or how it feels.

To admit that you are right pissed off at someone for not feeling it about you. Or that you just wish someone would get over feeling that way about you.

And especially to admit that you want love badly even if you suck at it and you have a giant mental notebook full of ideals you’re not giving up even though you pretend to be jaded about it and you hate romantic comedies and don’t get why Meg Ryan is so damn famous and you’re so not in control and you know what? You don’t need to be.

Because the most important way that love is like a rodeo?

You will get roped into it eventually, no matter how fast you run.