If you’re a chump, you’ve performed the Humiliating Dance of “pick me.” Actually, you probably have an entire repertoire of dance moves.
The Self-Improvement Shuffle. Done with calorie-burning gusto. You might drop 20 pounds.
The Perfect Home Polka. Make the marriage a good place to be, chumps! You can begin by attacking those dust bunnies and renovating the children.
The Feigned Cheerfulness Cha-Cha. Catch an STD? Nothing gets YOU down! Smiles everyone! Smiles!
The Hysterical Bonding Boogaloo. Because you’re better at this mating dance than the affair partner is.
The Open Marriage Swing. Monogamy isn’t natural. You’re okay with that, right?
The Forgiveness Flamenco. Generally performed alone. They forgiven themselves, you can too!
The Interpretive Dance. Interpret everything your partner does as Hopeful and Full of Potential.
So chumps, what dance moves did you bust?
Here’s one — I folded his underwear. Yep, finished his laundry and folded everything neatly into newly purchased Rubbermaid containers. As if he would notice my considerate laundering effort as I threw him out. (Is there an Emily Post book of etiquette on this?)
But that wasn’t the chumpiest thing I did, of course. I had four D-Days to perfect my dance routine. Put a line of credit on the home equity after D-Day 1? Oh sure. Justify my reconciliation to the OW? Yep. Go to pointless rounds of therapy to learn how I make mistakes too? (I fail at pasta. The sauce to noodle ratio should be greater.) Yes, again!
We all know why we do this — bargaining stages of grief, trying to control the uncontrollable, trying to prove our worthiness… Doesn’t make it any less humiliating to recall. I bring it up today, not to mortify you further, but to find solidarity. You aren’t the chumpiest chump. You’re in good company!
And if you cringe? Good. You’ll never dance that dance again.