Thaddle-Thore Thurthday: Dashing Through the Slush

What is love, anyway?

I thought I'd check with St Paul because he's been quoted at every wedding I've ever been to [except mine], and he tells me that love

does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not
easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love
does not delight in evil but rejoices with the
truth.

(Cor. 1:13)

To this I have to say, 'Mr. Apostle, that is very sweet. But you're begging the question, sir. Did I ask what love ISN'T?'

And then I say ten Hail Mary's and feel bad about sassmouthing our saint, and I turn from King James to King Features Syndicate.

Yes, where better to find the answers to what love is than in Love Is...? So I Googled my way to today's strip and learned that:

Love is...Bountiful

(Casselli, 2/5/09)

Today, love also appears to involve the usually naked kidult couple wearing Huck Finn outfits and picking apples.

My first reaction was, 'WTF? Apples in February? Does Casselli have a profound love of huffing silver spray-paint or merely a profound contempt for nature itself?' Then I went on Wikipedia and found out dude is Australian, so actually I guess those are Braeburns and it's late summer there and it's all fine. Sorry. I overreacted, and I apologize.

But my second reaction was, 'Good golly, you oddly-sexualized-and yet-genital-free bobble-heads, you are EVEN LESS help than St Paul. Love is Bountiful? What does that even mean? That I should sex up my nearest tree to increase our harvest? Wasn't there something like that in The Wickerman? And we all know how that ended!'

So, okay, clearly you can't rely on other people to define love for you. Thus, I now try it for myself. Here goes:

Love is...

slip-sliding over ungritted, solid-ice pavements

to get on a stanky-smelling, bumpy-riding bus

to ride on a teeming commuter-hour train

to walk down an unlighted park path with possible Ted Bundys

behind every tree

to ride around and around a school that is ankle-deep in slush

until every muscle in your body is yodelling Queen's greatest hits
and...

wait for it...
this is the best bit...
PAYING for the
privilege

(Mehitabel, 5/2/09)

Yes, only horse-addicts know the true meaning of love. (Um, no, not that kind of horse, otherwise Amy and Blake would still be together, n'est-ce pas?)

Last night's group lesson was especially challenging as I've been out of commish for the last 6 weeks or so with Repitious Flu and all my muscles, such as they are, have become very comfortable with the idea that their main use is for sitting on couches rather than horses.

But even with all this unpleasantness, I consider that luck was with me, because I got to ride Bobby.

Have you ever met a Bobby type? He's a little over 14H, fat as you like, and about 26 years old. And he is not afraid to play the age card whenever it seems conveeenyunt to him.

This was Bobby when I was a beginner rider:

'Oh *cough cough* sorry I can't go any fast, missus *wheeze*. The rheumatiz is playin' up. *Pitches forward violently* Dear me, did I stumble and almost send you over me ears, love? Well, I am an old man, what do you expect? *Comes to a dead stop at K and causes a massive horse pile-up behind him* Hmm, some interestin' clouds up there. Does that one look like a bunny to you?'

But I long ago discovered the secret of Bobby. It is carrots.

If you give him one carrot before lesson and two after, he is a different horse.

This is Bobby now that I'm a novice:

'D'you see that big sorrel thing up there ahead of us? Who does she bloody think she is, I'd like to know, prancin' along like a soddin' show-horse. 'Ere, watch this. *Attempts to zoom up the backside of of 16H 10-year-old* Ha! You don't like that, do you? Maybe you'll think twice next time before you go around bein' taller than me. What a liberty! Now then, what's that great lug over there doing? Call that a canter? *flies past 17H 13-year-old with backward look of profound contempt* Oh, what's that you want up there, missus? You what? Half-halt? We-ell, awright, but it isn't everyone I'd do it for, mind'

God, I love him SO MUCH. He's like a beautiful Vermeer that I've painstakingly uncovered after years of chipping away at a sad-clown-with-puppy overpainting.

I can only imagine what it will be like to ride him when I get a few more years worth of competence under the ol' belt. When I say my prayers, I include an addendum that he'll live long enough for me to find out.

Yup, that's love.