“And to not know what the next moment will bring… brings you closer to a perception of death. You see, that’s why I think that people have affairs. […] You can really feel that you’re on firm ground, you know. There’s a sexual conquest to be made. There are different questions. Does she enjoy the ears being nibbled? How intensely can you talk about Schopenhauer at some elegant French restaurant? Whatever nonsense it is, it’s all, I think, to give you the semblance that there’s firm earth.
Well, have a real relationship with a person that goes on for years… That’s completely unpredictable. Then you’ve cut off all your ties to the land, and you’re sailing into the unknown… into uncharted seas.”
– My Dinner with Andre (1981)
What a bizarre claim, Andre. To say there awaits “firm earth” in affairs. That some dalliance with a stranger is more stable than a steady ship. Situationships drive lonely lovers mad because the whole affair is an absolute free-fall, a constant second-guessing, an attachment that leaves you wanting more when you know the other person wants less (or maybe, the reverse). But maybe there’s an argument to be made that the uncertainty is short-lived: you only have to worry about the “unknown” insofar as you wonder whether you’ll get a text back in the next 48 hours. Whether your Hinge date will ghost you after a week of lazy, sporadic texting.
I am in no rush to criminalize the casual, the semblance of firm earth which grants sexual or emotional agency, or the adventures through reliably unreliable entanglements. There must be some allure in casting away commitment when your marriage to UofT demands your undying devotion.
But there comes a point when freedom turns to fatigue. Your friends develop the unshakeable perception that no one wants anything serious, and those who do are all still lacking in some respect as you swipe left, left, and left again.
Meanwhile, when staring into the unknown of what Andre calls a “real relationship,” questions grow from a matter of days to months to years. “Why won’t they text me back?” to “Will we live together a few years from now?” With more to give, you have more to lose, more to fear. A steady horizon line splits the air and sea, and the uncharted waves grow choppier as you come close.
With an affair, you’re dancing on the docks. At worst, you might fall into the water. Soaked, then dry, then off to another dry, dingy dock.
When you set sail, you have the chance to sail somewhere new, on a makeshift raft that grows more structurally integral with time, sometimes splitting wood, and sometimes requiring its two floundering sea-farers to empty buckets of excess water back into the sea. At worst, you’ll drown, with no surface in sight, and no shoreline. When given the choice, would you choose dock or death? Dalliance or devotion?
In an age of abhorrence and abstinence, will you keep to land or set sail for a sea full of surprise?
