Real love is a choice. I’m not talking about the lovey-dovey-butterflies-in-your-stomach-that-stop-as soon-as-you-realize-the-other-person-has-bowel-movements-type-love. That type of love is good for reality shows, but it doesn’t reflect actual reality where real people actually have real bowel movements.

I’m talking about the real love.

Love that lasts – like the kind of love that Hugh mentions in the comic. The love that the old people at the park have for each other when their eyesight is bad, their skin is wrinkly and they both smell funny and neither of them could give a hoot because they know they have each other. That type of love.

That type of love doesn’t just happen.

Some people I can’t even stand to be around for more than five seconds.

Look at the divorce rates nowadays. More than 50% of marriages do not last, and my grandparents lasted more years than some people are fortunate enough to live.

I come from and know nothing but stable families. I am a nephew to an aunt and uncle who have been married for 38 years, a son to a mother and father who have 31 years to their name, and a brother to two sisters whom are going very strong in their marriages.

If love isn’t all they need I must be missing something.

They don’t get by on loathing one another.

There’s someone we love to hate and hate to love.

The person we can never divorce ourselves from.

There’s only one person who infuriate me as readily. She knows how to push my buttons, when to criticize me, and how to tell a perfect stranger just what, exactly, I am and am not capable of. She likes pointing out “the fine young gentleman” in the grocery store, much to my chagrin, and whispering loudly that at 27 I ought to “pick a mate soon, because your looks aren’t going to last forever.”

Mom.

You see, I’ve never really been a guy to rush from one relationship to another. I certainly don’t head out on the town looking for a phone number or date, and I’m sure I could count the number of times I’ve asked a stranger for a phone number on one hand.

I…….wait.

I wait until I sense that weird flood of excitement around someone that feels like an innocent crush being thrown into an electric blender. I jump when my heart jumps.

On the eve of December 30, we silently drove to the airport, where I was taking the red-eye to JFK to go back to my apartment, my life.

As I stood in the airport, I let the tears fall down my cheeks. I wouldn’t let go of him. He kept saying, “I’ll be back in a couple of months.” I pretended I didn’t see the pain in his eyes.

I went through the airport like a robot. My stomach was in knots.

“This is surreal. This is not happening.”

“It seems that the main message in The Art of Non-Conformity is all about love,” he said. “But you don’t use the word love very often. Is that intentional?”

Normally, people ask about Frequent Flyer Miles or starting a business for $100, so this was a tough (but good) question. I thought about it and said that if someone thinks of love as being the central part of my work, I certainly couldn’t complain about that.

I love love like everyone else.