Who Loves You?

Do you know that great Four Seasons song “Who Loves you?”?  I’ve got it playing on my iPad right now.  I’m crazy about this mini-symphony.  In four short minutes it limns out my definition of love.

At least the way I understand it now, anyway.

I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately.  In all its forms.

Past, present and hopefully, future.

When I was in high school I liked it when I was the love object.  It was cool- and powerful- to have boys at my feet begging for dates, kisses, other more advanced sexual favors, and time just spent in my company.

I didn’t necessarily love them back.  Or even like them in some cases.

In fact, immature as I was at fifteen or sixteen, I kind of sneered at them.  How good could they be, I thought?  I’m not so hot, and if they were willing to jump through hoops, well, what did it say about them?  It diminished their coinage in my juvenile mindset.

But all these declarations of undying love and devotion did give me the upper hand- at least temporarily.  And I loved that position.  Inviolable, untouched by messy human emotion.  Couldn’t be hurt.

Safe.

And I repeated this pattern over and over again.  It was familiar and it brought certain rewards.

But it wasn’t much fun.  And emotionally it left me bereft.

I was a selfish bitch through most of my “belle of the ball” years.  Unrepentant and unremorseful.

And unhappy.

I don’t know when the switch was flipped.  Maybe when I had my kids.  I started to find out that it truly was more blessed to give than to receive.  My kids’ agenda always came first.  Period.

And my definition of love changed.  It became all about doing unto others.  Not what was in it for me.

From the time Natasha let out her first wail, I was there ready, willing (but not always able) to comfort, nurture, encourage and cheer her on.

Same thing with Nick.  Whatever the kids wanted I’d try to get for them. (I’m not talking about material things here.  If I was, Nick would have been the only eight year old with his own Porsche and that jet fighter they flew in Top Gun.)

My needs didn’t even make it onto the radar screen.  I just wanted whatever they wanted.

And if our hearts desires conflicted, well it was too darn bad for me.  The kids weren’t here to act out my agenda or unfinished Life business.  I felt that I was put in the role of “Mom” (or “Dude” in Nick’s case) to find their way and help them live up to their own private promise.

I’d like to think I’ve done this.  But it’s been at a real cost to myself.

No, I don’t love the fact that Natasha lives in Boston.  Just 2.5 miles from her in-laws house- as she was at  great pains to tell me.  (Therein beats the cold heart of an actuary. She had to put in that “.5 miles” bit.)

I don’t get out East too often and if/when there are grandchildren, I’m resigned to the fact that I won’t get to see them much.  (And vice versa.  Instead of “Granny,” they’ll probably call me “Mrs. Ross.”)

But Natasha was born a Boston schoolteacher- despite her 60093 zip code- and I facilitated her finding her way back “home.”

And Nick?  With his wife in Los Angeles and his heart in Colorado, who knows how much longer he’ll hang around here?  I’m living on borrowed time where he’s concerned, too.

But don’t get me wrong.  I’m not a martyr.  I found out one more important thing about love as I’ve aged and mellowed.

The French have a wise proverb: Il y en a toujours l’un qui baise et l’autre qui tourne la joue.  (Translation: In love there is always one who kisses and one who offers the cheek.) And the French also know that it’s way more fun to be the lover than the beloved.

It’s heady and intoxicating to just let yourself go and make a fool of yourself.  And yes, it can hurt like hell when you’ve been rebuffed or dumped or passed over for another candidate in the passion stakes.

But it sure beats feeling empty.

So let me just say to my future leading man I’m here if you need me.

Who loves you, pretty baby?

Who’s going to help you through the night?

Me, baby.

That’s who.

Now take it away, Frankie!