Timing? More perfect than Torvill and Dean’s. Right at this day in the calendar dedicated to grand romantic gestures, we get the bizarre gift of the sobbing self-confessed cheater Olympian. Totally brains a dozen tight-lipped roses and mid-range bubbly for originality, plus it’s interactive. We can play along at home.
For that handful of you not up to date with viral Norwegian biathlete Sturla Holm Laegreid, the precis is he dedicated his life to winning an Olympic medal. And did! Tremendous. Then left the podium in tears – not of joy but amid a public confession of adultery. Yeah, sheesh.
Like many of you, I felt a few things watching Laegreid admit to stepping out on the “love of my life” after six months together, pleading for forgiveness.
First, imagine medalling at the Olympics and using your victory lap to hash over your messy sex life. Time and place, I would have thought. Not just for you but for the blindsided teammates, whose triumphs were lost amid your soggy theatrics.
Second: was this grand humiliation actually weirdly romantic? A sweeping “I’ll do anything” gesture? Or just the profound self-involvement of a massive goose?
Look, anyone could see old mate was genuinely regretful. Being a love rat is traditionally something many of us go to lengths to conceal. To say someone hacked their social media account, for instance. So kudos for going there.
Still, if my beau of six months confessed to cheating, multiple acts of atonement would be required before he got to see my tapestry collection again. Off the top of my head: a week as a mime at a shopping centre, appearing in an erectile dysfunction ad, cleaning the portaloos at a festival.
Even then, forgiveness not guaranteed. But what I would find beyond the pale is if he’d made the confession between national anthems.
Massive stitch-up. It forces the wounded party to swallow humiliation and bestow magnanimity so the black hat can salvage image and ego. Same energy as a public marriage proposal. (A hill I will die on, alongside gender reveal baby showers.)
Laegreid’s ex-girlfriend seems similarly put off and has reportedly rejected his overtures. Random fun fact: he’s a Mensa member. Proof intellectual horsepower doesn’t always extend to emotional judgment.
Anyway, it all raises the question: what truly constitutes a meaningful romantic gesture? Is it skywriting, the fancy dinner, stonking bouquet, or something more humdrum?
Enter Sonja Lyubomirsky, a professor of psychology at the University of California, who’s spent decades researching happiness. The secret? “Feeling loved,” she told The New York Times this week.
That’s the premise of her new book How to Feel Loved, co-written with fellow psych professor Harry Reis. Their research suggests what makes us happy isn’t how much love we give, but how much we feel coming back to us.
The key? Become a better listener: “When someone feels deeply seen, valued, and understood, they become more willing, motivated and even eager to do the same for you.”
Doing that isn’t tricky, Lyubomirsky said. Don’t interrupt people. Don’t offer advice unless the person you’re listening to asks for it. And ask follow-up questions. Reis recommends three words: “Tell me more.”
Love is like a seesaw, the academics say. You lift someone with attentiveness, they rise to meet you: “Feeling loved is not out of your control.”
Which, handily, my husband seems to grasp without needing a psychology degree or Olympic medal. He knows the romantic gestures I value: turning on the electric blanket and noticing my violently expensive cut and colour the day of. Little things. Which sometimes include Jan Logan boxes, darling.
Likewise, Chris feels loved enough that I’m able to ditch him this Valentine’s Day for a date with my first loves, Mum and Dad. We’re seeing Ma’s poster boy Denis Walter sing a Bee Gees tribute at a winery. If he does You Should Be Dancing, my heart will explode.
I’ll be rapt in my parents, too. Married 67 years this April. Proof the real thing isn’t a public spectacle but a steady partnership, in step. Only occasional operatic beats. Torvill and Dean would understand.
Kate Halfpenny is the founder of Bad Mother Media.
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