Endpaper: The Slot-Machine of Love

There is no place to buy kosher spare ribs in Tucson, Arizona. Those who happen to be stranded in that far corner of the American Jewish Diaspora have to make the two-hour journey to Phoenix in order to partake of succulent barbecued beef. It was on the way home from one such trip that the illusion of love was demystified, and my young soul turned to black stone.

I was only 17 at the time, and I had traveled to Siegel's Deli as part of a caravan of cars, a convoy of approximately a dozen hungry Jews. After gorging on scrumptious red meat, we returned to our vehicles for the drive back home. It was determined that I would ride with Stacey, a pregnant 26-year-old, whose husband had not joined us all on this particular outing. At the time, I was preoccupied with the tricky quandary of whether my girlfriend and I should stay together when we took off for college.

So, somewhere around mile-marker 128 of Interstate 10 in southern Arizona, Stacey imparted what many believe to be the fundamental, gospel truth about love at the turn of the 21st century: It is radically contingent.

Stacey explained that while she was extremely happy in her marriage, there was nothing unique about her husband. In fact, she confided, there were at least three or four different men over the course of her life that she probably could have happily married, if only she had met them during the appropriate stage of life. I was confounded. I had always believed that there was something cosmically singular about one's life partner. Stacey was suggesting that romantic fate had less to do with the dictates of Venus and more to do with one's academic or employment status at any given time.

By the time I arrived at Harvard, my girlfriend and I had parted ways, and I rationalized the split in accordance with Stacey's theory. High school was not the appropriate stage of life to meet one's future spouse. But, I happily decided, college certainly was. After all, my parents had met in college, as had many of my friends' parents. I resolved that my future bride must be somewhere amongst those mobs of people moving into the Yard. Two-and-a-half years later, I must report that I was sorely mistaken. Of course, retrospectively I shouldn't be all that surprised.

Granted, some lucky few do manage to find their lifemates in the pressure cooker of these hallowed halls. But, for the most part, the conditions of college life conspire not to bring people together in congenial bliss, but rather to tear them apart and batter their spirits beyond recognition. For starters, these are years of rapid maturation and personal change. Trajectories of personal growth do not often coincide. Moreover, many are unwilling to settle down and work through the inevitable tribulations of a relationship. We're young, they think, and why should we tolerate anything less than total contentment? Things aren't going well? Then cut bait. Besides, isn't now the time to sow some wild oats?

Harvard is an especially challenging environment. In addition to the obvious fact that so many undergraduates are completely socially maladjusted, there are the pressures of competition, the stress of academics and the fact that the sun disappears every afternoon at three. In a sea of tense, depressed, type-A zombies, it's no wonder that the condoms at CVS aren't exactly flying off the shelf.

Post-collegiate life does look slightly more promising. For some reason, those same zombies seem more equipped to couple off permanently once they have a diploma in hand. A friend recently relayed to me a story of two Harvard students who had dated from their first year to their senior fall. Suddenly and inexplicably, they broke up. A year later, after graduation, both met other people and, after dating their new partners for only a few months, are now engaged to them.

This tale, while heartwarming in a certain sense, is also deeply disconcerting to the extent that it confirms Stacey's theory. These two dated for a full three years. One presumes that, at least for the first six months, they were optimistic about their long term prospects. But, because of their stage in life, they never married, and eventually things fell apart. Now, after dating new people for just 12 weeks, they're both engaged. Social convention encourages marriage at the age of 22 but not 19. And three years from now, if the new couples find themselves unhappy, their married status will hopefully compel them to work through their problems and remain together. Yet who is to say that new matches are any better than the old ones? What if we meet the right partner in the wrong stage?

I am a firm believer that even if there is no "one," there certainly are only a finite great few. Of course, there is no way to control during which phase those greats will come along. Unfortunately, in this day and age, it seems that too many phases of life have been closed off to the cultivation of life-long romance. Outside the trailer parks, high school is for the most part a non-starter. College is unlikely. Even those years immediately following college, while still providing some hope, are starting to show signs of corruption. As everyone chases career opportunities, geographic location has arisen as one more variable that must be aligned. Pretty soon, we'll all have to wait until we've made managing director, padded our Roth IRAs and settled in our favorite suburb before the prospect of a long-term relationship seems viable.

The number of different reels on the great slot machine of love is increasing out of control. But, ironically, people are more willing than ever to pull the lever, reset the machine and take their chances. We draw a match in high school, but we pull the lever again because, we imagine, there might be a bigger jackpot in college. In college we draw another match, but we let ourselves get distracted, don't cash out in time and pretty soon we're pulling again. That's alright, we imagine, we've got all night to play-nowadays no one leaves the casino this early in the evening. And, as the contingency theory teaches us, there's nothing particularly special about three cherries. Three apples at another point in time will do just as well.

Unfortunately, what many fail to realize-and what earlier generations might have understood-is that, as the night wears on, the odds of hitting jackpot only get worse. And the value of the jackpot only declines. Young love is the purest sort; we have not yet had the time to accumulate all the baggage that maintains the psychotherapists in their homes in the Hamptons. No matter when you settle down there are bound to be bumps ahead. But, if you've already met one of the greats, you might want to hang on now-because purity is irreplaceable.

This Sunday is Valentine's Day, an occasion that used to be shrouded in a seemingly absurd sincerity. Now, of course, it has been devalued and commodified to the same extent as the relationships we cycle through. This year, however, perhaps those here at Harvard lucky enough to have someone in their life should take the opportunity to consciously reject the modern perspective and its faith in the circumstantial contingency of life-long partnership.

If you allow yourself to believe that your partner now ought to be your partner forever, you may find your inclination to stick things out miraculously intensifies.

Granted, staying together through these formative years will be tough, and the project of growing-up is undeniably messy. But the trouble is, there are always external conditions that will entice you to retreat into yourself, neglect your partner or otherwise sabotage your relationships. The sooner you hunker down and resist those enticements, the fewer greats will slip through your fingers.

It has become popular to refer to our unsuccessful youthful dalliances as "learning experiences." They are hardly so inconsequential. The people we meet now could be our best shots at true happiness. If, because for four years you were too lazy to attend to your studies, you were rejected from every medical school you applied to, would you call it a "learning experience?" No, you'd call it a tragic mistake with potentially catastrophic consequences for the rest of your life. If, especially at this young age, you've found one of the greats, don't let that wonderful, pristine coincidence fall victim to your immaturity, your preoccupation with school or any other happenstance of your stage in life.

This Sunday, resolve not to succumb to the reckless indifference that Stacey's theory allows. Pulling that lever and taking another shot may cost far more than you think, and you might never see those cherries again.

Noah D. Oppenheim is the editorial chair of The Crimson. He's hit jackpot before, but has a tendency to squander his winnings.