Unconditional Love: An Indictment

This is a list of things I don’t buy:

• Florida swampland;

• Emailed invitations to pity parties by way of Nigerian royalty;

• Magic beans;

• Admission tickets to explore the ocean’s depths in a submersible;

• A Masterclass in bird hunting, hosted by Wile E. Coyote;

• Shake weights;

Buyer beware.

• Moral, spiritual, and intimacy-related advice imparted by Marilyn Manson;

• Unconditional love.

This list should be entirely noncontroversial, but I suspect some will bristle at the last entry. So here we go.

I’ve ruminated on this for a good long while. As far as I can tell, this is a final draft list of recipients who deserve and provide unconditional love:

• Manatees.

That’s it. Manatees. Beginning and end of list.

Unconditional love, personified.

Until Thích Nhất Hạnh’s recent passing, he was an honorable mention on this list. Being dead and all, however, precludes expressions of love, unconditional or otherwise. Especially otherwise.

I’ve polled friends on this topic over the years, and the same two entries inevitably get thrown out—babies and puppies. These are really the same thing. The only difference is that you can only leave one of them in the crate when you hit up happy hour. Technically, you could leave the other in the crate, but the chances you spend the rest of your life taking communal showers and swearing allegiance to an ethnically specific prison gang increases dramatically.

It’s not that puppies and babies don’t deserve love. They do. But some of those babies are going to grow up and become serial killers or telemarketers. And some of those puppies are going to turn into Cujo or they’re going to eat your kids’ crayons and drop rainbow colored turds all over the house (story for another time). The point is this: it’s not unconditional love if there’s a time limit.

The clock is ticking…

“But, Norm, don’t you love your children unconditionally?” you ask.

What are you, drunk? I absolutely do not. My kids will tell you as much. Because I’ve told them as much. My love is entirely conditional. Do your chores, keep your grades up, laugh at my jokes—all the love. Do anything dumb or careless that requires me to go to a meeting that I would not otherwise have to attend—the love plummets. Say something amusing or clever or derogatory about Kanye West or Lee Greenwood—nothing but love. Initiate an exchange in public that gets me roped into small talk—the love deflates.

Giving out unconditional love is essentially handing out an emotional participation trophy. Even the cross-eyed kid who’s got a finger up his nose two knuckles deep and faces the wrong way out in right field gets something for his “effort.” I don’t want that kid on my team.

I asked a friend of mine about her take on unconditional love. The exchange turned toward her husband and she said this: “I mean, I love him unconditionally but I also don’t have to love him unconditionally because he doesn’t put me through terrible shit…like the rest of these bastards.”

bas·tard /ˈbastərd/ 1. an unpleasant or despicable person. 2. an unconditionally loved schmuck.

This got me thinking. It’s probably the bastards who are making this case for unconditional love. I’ve done my share of work in marketing, and I know a bullshit message when I hear it. The bastards are calling for unconditional love; meanwhile, they’re the ones dragging ass, not pulling their weight, in need of a double dose of emotional Viagra.

Some of you might be quick to point out that I’ve been the recipient of unconditional love, that I’ve enjoyed acceptance and warmth from a host of people—perhaps even from divine entities—despite my flaws and shortcomings. You’re probably right, but I’d counter with this: If you’re just giving out love willy-nilly, how much can it be worth? You’re like one of those people in the city who hands out flyers for a goat yoga experience or a discount sushi restaurant. Except the flyer is your heart and soul and the recipients just roll their eyes and use it to clean up their dog’s rainbow colored turds.

In a culture that too often romanticizes unconditional love, I stand firmly by the underrated virtues of its conditional counterpart. It's the kind of love that says, “I care about you enough to demand that you resist being one of the miserable bastards.” Conditional love isn’t cynical, I say—it’s hopeful. It believes in potential.

Related, it’s Mother’s Day. Happy Mother’s Day to my wife, my mom, and my mother-in-law, all of whom have held me accountable and increased my potential. All three of you should keep doing what you’re doing because it’s absolutely lovable, not as lovable as a manatee but damn close.

---

Thanks for reading! If you want to read some funny bits about the mothers in my life, consider clicking on one of these bad boys (bad mothers?):

Faux Ma: my mom makes an indelible impression at In-N-Out Burger.

Marriage Boot Camp: my wife makes an indelible impression all over Europe.

The Sounds of Irony, Silent and Otherwise: my mother-in-law makes an indelible impression with her butt.

---

And if you haven’t read Dig, my dark crime comedy novella, you can nab it for less than a buck on Amazon. If you do, please consider leaving an unconditionally loving rating and a review.