Look out -- here comes Cupid

Ugh, love. It’s done me no favors.

Like Socrates, I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t in love. There have always been flowers to buy or anniversaries to remember. Love is a lot of gift lists and yardwork. I pity the man who loves more than me.

A colleague recently told of how her husband was so drunk the first time he proposed that she made him propose again when he sobered up, just to be sure he was sincere.

All I could think was: “How many months did that take?” I guess I can be a little grumpy about love. Like a boy born to money who eschews the upper class.

There’s nothing to love about love. It comes with no guarantees. The health risks are legion. There are all sorts of unexplainable rashes.

With love, there should be lots of fine print, and labels on your lover’s neck: WARNING: THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA HAS FOUND THIS PERSON TO BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR EMOTIONAL AND PHYSICAL WELL-BEING. LOVE WISELY. LOVE WELL.

For the most part, love is bad poetry and guys jumping off bridges and a jilted Meg Ryan blowing her nose over and over and over. . . .

It’s Woody Allen chasing lobsters across the kitchen floor and Redford kissing Fonda. Jane, not Peter. But with love, you never know. Could’ve been his horse. Could’ve been Carl Bernstein.

What do we love about love? Love is Ryan O’Neal movies and Ali MacGraw in a hospital bed, Code Blue. Love is Portnoy complaining and Gatsby gazing painfully out to sea -- alone.

Love is kings abdicating the throne and presidential impeachments and Glenn Close coming at you with a knife.

Love is music. Sure it is. It’s Barry Manilow running off with some girl named Mandy, who probably didn’t even tell her parents because, heck, she’s in college now and they don’t need to know everything.

Love is Dionne Warwick singing about catching pneumonia and Sinatra on a bar stool at a quarter to 3, with no prospects. Sinatra with no prospects? That’s how whacked love is. Love is whiskey neat. Love is Ava Gardner not returning your calls.

Love is risky behavior aboard the Ferris wheel at the pier. Or the back seat of your best friend’s Mustang. Or in the band room after math class.

Love isn’t blind; it’s dumb. If love were blind, there wouldn’t be so many push-up bras. If love were blind, Carmen Electra wouldn’t have a career.

Love is those peppery little candy hearts that ruin the tongue, and steak-and-shrimp at Sizzler for $12.99.

Love is hemlock. Love is laughter. Love has many of the same symptoms as heart attacks and indigestion.

“Don’t threaten me with love, baby. Let’s just go walking in the rain,” said Billie Holiday.

That’s love. It makes you want to drown yourself in a heavy downpour. It makes you want to puddle up and sing the blues.

Someone once said that right in the middle of an ordinary life, love gives us a fairy tale.

Oh sure, I guess there’s that. Love does give us hope. If you’re not careful, it can sweep you off this very Earth and brush aside your every worry. It can make you feel invincible.

Is that such a good thing? Sure, love is the biggest buzz ever. It’s also the freight train you never saw coming.

By my count, there are many kinds of love . . . maybe four.

1. Romantic love

2. Puppy love

3. Family love

4. The love of a good and memorable book

Remarkably, these are the only loves that come to mind. Think about that. There are 50 different types of ice cream -- 500 choices of Starbucks coffee -- but only four flavors of love?

Why is love so frappin’ fickle? Because, if you believe the literature, love is in the hands of a 2-year-old with a crossbow and a saggy diaper. Come on, Cupid, get in the game. This is your Super Bowl, baby. Ready . . . aim . . . fire . . .

Ouch. Lucky shot, little dude.

So get me the florist on the phone. And reserve me that table for two at Sizzler.

Yep, I pity the man who loves more than me.

Happy Valentine’s.

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Chris Erskine can be reached at [email protected]. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.