There’s been an appetite for peeping since privacy was invented.
Walls were built and the humans excluded wondered what was worth hiding. Many would agree that no longer procreating, while the previously-created share the same bed, is the positive side of progress. Those in dissent could argue that our sexual education has degraded, and they wouldn’t be wrong. There’s value in visibility.
Partially due to the perversion of taboo, more walls were built - emotional ones. How much of ourselves are we really sharing these days? We broadcast parts online, but when most are focused on views, instead of truly being seen, what are we learning? How do we even understand fellowship when follow-ship is gamified? I believe connection is an atrophying art.
People want to know what others are doing: for camaraderie, for connection, curiosity, comfort, or to learn.
I binge read the Savage Love column for years. Some prefer Esther Perel’s podcast Where Should We Begin?. Whatever level your brow, there’s an interpersonal peep show for you. And there have been since the 17th century. Relationship education can happen in the home, but many would rather unlearn what they’ve borne witness to since birth. That can be done from observing or from making the mistakes yourself. I elected for a split - audited credits and field apprenticeship.
When studying the art of love through observation, I’ve found the source material disappointing. Many of the real relationship windows are opened via relationship dysfunction. ‘I lost the desire for my husband.’ ‘I’ve been secretly cheating on my partner with their best friend.’ We’ve heard it all before. Lately, I’ve found myself wondering - why leave our peeping to problems? Sure they’re frequently more titillating. But dramatics are for the young.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy watching Love is Blind as much as the next person. It’s captivating to see sparks - especially for those who yearn for them so deeply they’d put up with bizarre circumstance. But I’d rather fast forward through Shaina and Shane’s bullshit and even Natalie’s flagellation endurance. The observation of which may proffer secondhand misstep awareness, but it will never showcase what I’m looking for.
I want the reality show of those boring, blissfully adoring parents that went viral on Instagram Reels. Or a series on Woody and Amani Randall from Married at First Sight now that they’re parents. I want to watch them get into bed together. I wonder if they share toothbrushes. I’d like to be a fly on the wall as they touch-talk themselves back together after a bicker battle, or reestablish connection after distraction-induced miscommunication resulted in a cyclical love debt.
Without that, I’d sooner be carried off through the predictable happily ever after character arch and let my nervous system be caressed by the pros. The authors/screenplay writers, that is. The love-havers are so infrequently pros. How could we be, really?
I am not a love expert. Nor a relationship expert. Yes, I’ve had a knack for helping set up friend dating profiles. And I feel I’ve learned a few lessons in love over time. But this isn’t about that. Not at all. This isn’t about education, necessarily. This is about opening a window - drawing back a curtain - and letting anyone interested take a look at what is going on in this private life. Living life by example has been my preferred style of activism since I knew there were styles of activism.
I feel safe. I feel loved. I see others are curious. I thought I’d share.