Celebrity couples come and go more frequently than they do in pleb society. Just another reason shit is hard for the beautiful people. We really shouldn’t be invested in these breakups. Or, at the very least, we should be used to them by now. Yet, like most things celebrity, we ravenously consume news of famous failures in love. Except for those who are above it. Good for you! Your life is richer than most.
The 50s were a better time. Women didn’t have real roles in the workplace and once the ring hit their finger they were out. Safely relegated to home in their position as an actual wife. Now, they overstay their welcome and brazenly make a real contribution to the team. All this collaboration leads to interpersonal connections, which, after 40 plus hours a week, morph into a relationship. A relationship that quickly becomes the much talked about faux marriage.
At one point I didn’t think I was ever going to post this. It was far too dark. Not really in keeping with the tone I had established. Even when I talked about some of the shadier moments of past relationships I tried to keep it relatively light. But after a week conversing with a myriad of women who had similar experiences, I felt more compelled to share my own more publicly. One of the women I spoke with had no idea anyone else could possibly go through what she did. And one is still in the midst of it. It was her story even more than the others that prompted the release of this material. Because I know she represents thousands of other women who are still in it and I feel I have a responsibility to share anything I can to encourage them to get out before it’s too late.
Adulthood is comprised of a series of rites of passage strung together until our final rite. Learning to drive. The first time your dad pulls you out of a ditch. Your first legal drink. The second time your dad pulls you out of a ditch. Your first legal hangover. An apartment all your own. The third time your dad pulls you out of a ditch. Running back to roommates after realizing living on your own is lonely and expensive. Running back to an apartment all your own after realizing the additional cost is worth it because Kelly just can’t remember to rinse her damn dishes. The fourth time your dad pulls you out of a ditch.
I’m not sure how he found out. I had shattered almost every possible connection: real-life, virtual and everything in between. Unfriending, blocking, changed numbers, filtered emails, useless restraining orders. You know, the ushe. I did flash my engagement ring to a mutual acquaintance after a few adult freeze pops (delicious, bastards) had loosened my lips one summer day a few weeks after the question had popped.
Know what’s amazing? Therapy. Know who needs to realize this? Everyone. I just got a message from a friend explaining how he unloaded six months worth of built up mental health concerns in one session. The result? A prozac prescription. During that six-month period, he had gotten out of a tumultuous relationship with a bag of crazy, so the need for a little help from a professional was unsurprising.
