High (Shame) Fidelity, and the Illusion of Certainty

Nobody wants to be cheated on. Because everyone wants control. We want to control our work, our kids (including pets), our schedules, our trajectory in life, and our emotions if we can help it. We also want to control our partners because once upon a time we were born, and the movies taught us—cheating: bad. Monogamy: good.

But last week I heard the great poet Andrea Gibson (RIP) say: What is more loving than the truth?

What if the truth is—we want to be chosen. We want to be guaranteed love.
We want to be the one, because the one means the best, because deep down the real question is: am I enough? Enough for this partner? Enough for this crowd? Enough for this ask?

Isn’t everything we do circling around the question of will you leave me, because if you stay then I am safe, I am worthy, I am alright. And isn’t the safety in your own existence the hardest to find?

Alain de Botton once said (and I paraphrase): if you’re well-adjusted and had an absolutely fabulous childhood, the tell-tale sign is that you never want to be famous. Why? Because you don’t crave external validation. You don’t need a chorus of strangers to crown you “good.” And maybe that’s what we’re chasing when we cling to moral high ground: the fantasy of certainty, of safety, of applause. But the most well-adjusted people I know need not possess the last word, the relationship, the thing, or the air in the room. They don’t need to be right because the unknown unknowns mean they could be wrong. There’s this sense of so what? that gives their life ease and breath.

I aspire to that.

I don’t want to go too much into the CEO / HR woman situation because it has little to do with me. In fact, I feel only responsible for canceling my subscriptions to most of the convenience-driven giants because I feel obligated to the environment. But I do not feel obligated to shame these strangers. It doesn’t make me a better person for not wanting to do that, but it keeps me less distracted. Everything in pop culture wants our energy. And I choose to spend it geeking out on Mr. Terrific’s scene in the new Superman (which, despite its visual attack on my senses, has given me the strangest security in hope for humanity).

I wonder all the time if humans are meant to be monogamous. And I don’t have an answer for that. I think some are wired to be, like two lobsters holding claws side by side (I got that from Friends, and I also think Ross and Rachel would now be divorced). But people cheat for many reasons, and I don’t have a scope into their lives. I just know we’ve made up this thing called marriage and vows and health insurance, which can go to your love only after you have taken that vow. And the idea of having that insurance means your right to live disease-free has a $30–$50 co-pay and a $4,000 deductible. So apparently, the only CEO topic that feels ripe for discussion is the one that involves that Sicilian bean whose name rhymes with Fiji.

My point is, we don’t really know why we believe the things we believe until we go back to the first time we were convinced to believe it.

My favorite line from Atlanta came from Lakeith Stanfield at 0:27 because, yes, true.

I believed Energizer was the best battery because a bunny kept going and going and going. I believed Red Bull gave you wings—not literally, but it gave you a high high enough to carry you through that dreadful party. I believed in happily ever after because the Little Golden Books, and frankly, Walt Disney and the Grimm brothers told me. I’d still like to believe that. But I believed it because it felt final, and I enjoyed that toasty feeling of finality because it felt forever. But in real life? I’ve seen that finality less than more.

I believe in love, science, and chemistry. And all three are not mutually exclusive.

Can a person love twice? At the same time?

Can a person fall in love and quickly fall out when their values don’t align?

Can a person think they’re in love and realize they’re not actually in love, but the impending wedding looms with the shame of needing to tell their family?

Can they marry for financial convenience if they equate love with financial stability?

Is it unromantic to make such an arrangement? Or is the fulfilled last two tiers of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs romantic enough?

There are a million possibilities. So.

My wondering out loud has nothing and everything to do with the Coldplay cam-circus. It’s a question on human nature, capitalism, and the disregard of nuance. And the delight of a public humiliation brigade. Because anything that is done that isn’t in accordance with the general consensus of what is moral seems to warrant loud shame. And I also take into consideration that many, many people are suffering, and the sentiment of the masses is to eat the rich. However, I am almost certain that even if the footage were of two anonymous lower-middle-class strangers, the glee would still persist.

I think it’s beautiful when couples stay together forever and have never had interest in ever straying. I think it’s lovely when two people want to get married and announce their undying love for each other in front of their family and friends. I also think it’s hypocritical that we demand so much loyalty in a society where people are urged to say “I think I’m falling in love with you” by episode 2 of The Bachelorette (which is on its 21st season with no end in sight because people eat. it. up.).

I think we require too much control for our own emotional safety. And that many relationships are unbalanced, and people stay for a variety of justifiable and unjustifiable reasons.

I believe in true love.

And I think mob mentality and moral superiority come from fear, although it’s often inevitable. And I think we should focus our energy on saving this planet and bonding with our community—for the good of our physical future and emotional peace.

A note on this Fragonard:
I used to think it was just a coquettish girl on a swing, but it’s actually a commentary on illicit affairs during the French aristocracy. The girl is being pulled back by her husband while a new admirer pursues her from the front. Cupid’s got a finger to his lip in view, saying quite loudly: everyone knows. She’s kicked off her shoes playfully between the push and pull. It’s unclear if the older husband knows what’s happening, but we, the spectators, almost always do.