One of my college Psych professors claimed that every choice we make in life revolves around our desire to acquire a single thing: sex.
He argued that it was a primitive, unalterable biological imperative (thereby excusing the human race our frequent idiocy?) He said that, from the clothing a person selected in the morning, to the food they shopped for, to the entertainment they sought, at the very root of it all, was our single-minded goal of attracting a mate and getting laid.
I thought he was a jackass, raised a manicured hand and told him so with lofty disdain. He challenged me to rebut. Mac 1.0 couldn’t.
But Mac 4.0 can.
Sure, a lot of life is about sex. But you have to pull up high, and look down on the human race with a bird’s-eye view to see the big picture, a thing I couldn’t do when I was nineteen and pretty in pink and pearls. Shudder. Just what kind of mate was I trying to attract back then? (Don’t expect me to analyze Mac 4.0’s predilection for black and blood. I get it, and I’m perfectly fine with it.)
So, what’s the big picture about our lust for sex?
We‘re not trying to acquire something. We want to feel something: Alive. Electrically, intensely, blazingly alive. Good. Bad. Pleasure. Pain. Bring it on--all of it.
For people who live small, I guess enough of that can found in sex.
But for those of us who live large, the most alive we ever feel is when we’re punching air with a fist, uncurling our middle finger with a cool smile, and flipping Death the big old bird.