Why we love women so

[Eng tat's snores]

The following article was retrieved from Asiaone. It's a bit long but it's a good read because I totally agree.

From the imperial perversions of Napoleon, who implored his Josephine not to bathe so he could immerse himself in her natural aromas, to the surreptitiously-taped post-coital warbling of Ferdinand Marcos singing "Pamuliwanen" to his mistress Dovie Beams; from the tender sweetness of Douglas MacArthur who was inseparable from his Momma until she kicked the bucket in the Philippines, to the hell-raising passion of many a courting swain doing death-defying feats to impress his lady-love; from shy youths writing horrible prose and even worse verse to their crushes, to Shakespeare's love-sonnets; from ancient Troy to knights slaughtering each other in the name of chivalric love; from Edward VIII renouncing his throne, to Prince Charles risking losing his right to succession because of Camilla Parker-Bowles; the history of mankind has lurched from the sublime to the tender to the ridiculous because of the love and passion of men for women.

Why do we love them so? What makes us risk fame and fortune for them? What makes us decide to risk our very lives for women who, tragically often enough, aren't inclined to notice our existence?

Surely our attraction for them goes beyond biological imperatives. We may desire them, but our desire -- or so we maintain -- goes beyond mere lust; for many, there is no substitute for the slender neck, the curvaceous rump, the tantalising breast; but we have loved, and continue to love, women who do not meet the fashion-induced standards of beauty of our day and for reasons that go beyond the temporary lunacy inspired by lust.

Or, if not lunacy, then at least perverse satisfaction. As Diane Ackerman wrote in "A Natural History of the Senses": "For those of exquisite sensuality, there is nothing headier than the musky smell of a loved one moist with sweat. But natural body odors don't strike most of us as particularly enticing. In the Elizabethan Age, lovers exchanged 'love apples' -- a woman would keep a peeled apple in her armpit until it was saturated with her sweat, and then give it to her sweetheart to inhale."

The simplest things make us love them: the way they laugh; the way they look at us; the manner in which they walk or sit. We go crazy over the down on their arms. We become irrational when we are deprived of their companionship. We feel incomplete unless they are with us to share the adventure of life.

A lovable woman is more than the sum of her erotically alluring parts. We love women because they can baby us; because they can discipline us; because they give us a reason for living and an anchor with which to keep our existence moored to a purpose greater than mere money-making or the achievement of fame. They are our missing half; our better half; never mind if we joke they are to us the old ball-and-chain.

In getting to know them, they get to know us, achieving an understanding of our selves beyond our competence. Our egos, which we spend our whole lives pumping up in order to deflate the egos of others, are small, insignificant things to them -- and yet they generously help keep them inflated, if only to make us happy.

Woman is the necessary drug, the Prozac of our soul, which keeps us from becoming dysfunctional -- though in our weaknesses we may turn her into the cocaine that can destroy our lives; but that isn't woman's fault. Woman is wine: the delectable fruit of the vine, giving us joy, warming the heart, and warming us during those moments when a man and a woman united in love create entire universes: for physical and intellectual union are what create those high moments of ecstasy and illumination which validate our existence as human beings.

Our mothers. Our sisters. Our girlfriends. Our wives. Our mistresses. Loving and loved in different ways and under wildly different circumstances: and yet all the same in the way they bring out the best of us and the worst of us.

Our very being, of course, we owe to women: no one would be on this earth without them. To them we owe our development into thinking beings. To them we owe what little love we may receive as children, which must sustain us through life until, by some good fortune, we find another woman to love us totally, whether she be a mate or a friend. To woman man owes the perpetuation of the race; and to each woman each man must owe kindness, compassion, true friendship, such as only women can provide.

We love women because we need women: there are even men who wish they were women or who try to be utterly feminine with all their might. Isn't it taken as an essential truth these days that man doesn't do anything unless motivated by his self-interest? Without woman man would be just another ape trying to build a harem of females with which to procreate; it is woman who elevates us from the ranks of common animals.

Without woman, we would have no art; no literature; no music: without woman we would have no civilisation. Deprived of woman, we would be sterile beings, unable to bring into this world re-creations of ourselves: children to ensure our immortality. Without woman we would have no one to wipe away our tears, to kiss us when we're blue, to share embraces and the caresses of love. To gossip with, shop with, eat with, unburden one's soul to or merely pass the time.

That is why we love women so. Without them, the world would have no meaning, we wouldn't be here; our individual worlds would be barren: a truth we all know to be true, particularly during lonely nights when we toss and turn, yearning for companionship and compassion. And -- why not? -- a little fun, for men will be boys, after all.

Come to think of it, we love women simply because THEY ARE CHIOS! Not meh?