I am staring at a mug shot of actor Ryan O’Neal on one of those 24-hour news channels.

According to the too-good-looking-to-be-taken-seriously Hollywood reporter, Mr. O’Neal was arrested last weekend for allegedly assaulting his own son. Apparently, O’Neal was dining out with Farrah Fawcett, mother of one of his children. They were celebrating her (gasp!) 60th birthday and came home to find O’Neal’s 42-year-old son (not the one he had with Farrah) and pregnant girlfriend (the son’s, not Ryan’s) in the house.

Still with me?

The reporter doesn’t specify what the son and girlfriend were doing in O’Neal’s home. I assume they live there like the happy, multigenerational clan they clearly are. The youngsters were likely engaged in some kind of risky business while the folks were away, like dancing around the living room in their skivvies. (Crazy 42-year-old kids!)

Whatever the circumstance, a confrontation ensued. Fireplace pokers were swung. Guns were drawn. The senior O’Neal was arrested.

I’m sure it was a huge misunderstanding.

The reporter sums up the career of the still-boyish, 65-year-old O’Neal in a few lines of copy, then cuts to a clip from “Love Story,” the tear-jerking classic of 1970 that made him a star.

Immediately, I flash back to a Saturday afternoon in ninth grade. My friend Lynne (who was more than a little prone to histrionics) has crumpled to the floor of the movie theater, overcome with grief at the tragic death of Jennifer Cavalleri (played by Ali McGraw) at the end of the movie. Lynne is banging her fists on the seat of her chair and sobbing loudly (“Why!? Why-y-y-y!?”), forcing patrons to step over her as they file out of the aisle. It will be a full 20 minutes before she can collect herself and leave the theater. I am mortified.

Back in the present, the clip shows Oliver Barrett IV (played by O’Neal) declaring to his father, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

The reporter comes back on screen and, with all the glibness he can muster, says, “That’s the line Ryan O’Neal is most famous for. Something tells me he might be rethinking that. Back to you in the studio.”

I switch off the TV in disgust, pondering the essence of the celebrated “Love Story” line. Love means NEVER having to say you’re sorry?

Now there’s something you won’t be reading on a Valentine’s Day card.

Did we really buy into that drivel back in the ’70s? Do you know anyone in love – REALLY in love for the long haul – who doesn’t apologize to his or her mate on an almost-daily basis?

I don’t need Dr. Phil to tell me that “sorry” is the bedrock of the successful relationship. There should be a “mandatory ‘I’m sorry'” clause written into the marriage vows, for crying out loud.

Not to hold my own relationship up as an example of perfection (who could?), but the apology has been a staple in my marriage for the last 27 years (along with college basketball, home improvement projects and beer). To wit, I proffer the following examples of typical dialogue between my husband and me on any given day:

Him: You still haven’t brought me your receipts from last week. I need them for Quicken.

Me: Sorry. I forgot.

Me: You didn’t take out the trash today.

Him: Sorry. I was thinking it was Tuesday.

Him: You didn’t pay your parking ticket again. That’s another ten-buck fine we have to pay.

Me: Sorry. I meant to.

Me: You ate the last piece of chicken without telling me?

Him: Sorry. Did you want it?

Him: You went to the store and you didn’t get any beer?

Me: Sorry. I didn’t know we were out.

Now, just for grins, take the exchanges above and replace the word “sorry” with your favorite “_________ you!” epithet.

Kind of changes the whole dynamic, doesn’t it?

The truth is, love means ALWAYS having to say you’re sorry.

Now, if somebody could only get word to Ryan O’Neal and the Hollywood reporter, not to mention that lovesick, diaper-wearing astronaut woman.

But I’ll save her for another time.