When I was six, I watched the news for the first time. When they announced that Princess Diana had died in a car crash, I broke down in tears.
When I was seven, I saw Titanic. When Leonardo Dicaprio turned blue and sank to the bottom of the Atlantic with the ship that was supposedly unsinkable, I was devastated.
When I was eight, I heard the song "Angel" by Sarah McLachlan. When my mother asked me what I thought of it, I replied: "Sad."
When I was thirteen, I read Anna Karenina. When Anna threw herself under the train, I was stricken for both she and Vronsky.
When I was fifteen, England played Portugal in the quarterfinals of the 2006 FIFA World Cup. When Cristiano Ronaldo scored his penalty kick, I was inconsolable.
I asked my father to reread The Little Mermaid the next night. I sometimes watch documentaries about Princess Diana in my spare time. Upon finishing Titanic, I insisted that we rewind the tape and watch again. The song "Angel" is on my "25 Most Played" list on iTunes. I reread Anna Karenina three years later. I recorded England vs Portugal on a DVD, and still watch it every now and again.
On no occasion have any of these things been less sad than the first time I experienced them. But I go back to them time and again despite that fact. Sometimes, I hope that the Titanic will miss the iceberg this time, or that Ronaldo hits the post. On others, I hope that Anna does get hit by the train; that the Little Mermaid does kill herself, employing some sort of reverse psychological practice on the powers that be. The remainder of the time, I prepare for the oncoming upset of Prince Harry at his mother's funeral, and steel myself for exposure to McLachlan's emotion-laden voice. None of these tactics ever work. But I still go back, and I never stop trying.
From what I understand, I am not the only person enthralled with overwhelming sadness. In fact, it would seem that tragic tales are the most popular ones. It is interesting to think that we are taught about fighting for success, and how winning is funner than losing. This is not wrong. It is easier to smile than to frown, and sobbing uncontrollably into an American flag when you are not American expends more energy and dignity than I care to relate. And yet, we still expose ourselves over and over to situations that threaten our states of general happiness, even when we know for certain that we will be disappointed, depressed, and/or dehydrated at the last. I am fairly certain that this function of human behaviour has absolutely no adaptive significance whatsoever. So why do we do it?
At moments like the one below, I can't help but think it is simply because despite the blood, sweat, and (most often) tears, it is one hell of a beautiful game.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and under most circumstances, I would be more than happy to oblige. As it stands, I can utter no more than a five-word phrase that has been more popular than ever before over the last three weeks:
"Marry me Hope, I'm Solo."
Well, that and "Stay gold, Ponyboy." But the irony in that statement is a bit too tough to handle just yet. Maybe tomorrow.
Peace, love, and floating,
Gill Ford
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