If you didn’t leave right after D-Day, you’ve probably spent some time in chump Police Academy. You know, those dark days of “trust but verify” spent trying to hack into email accounts, cell phone SIM cards, velcro-ing voice activated recorders under carseats… Just how far did you go? (Anyone have a shoe phone?)
Today’s column came to me in a weird dream I had last night. I dreamt my friend needed some help driving to a vacation destination. So I get in the car, and there is a corpse in the back. I turn to my friend and say matter-of-factly, “You might want to consider going on vacation without the dead person in the back seat.”
Kind of a metaphor for a bad marriage really. The ride is so much nicer without a corpse.
When trust dies, the marriage is DEAD, but of course, chumps that we are, we drive on. Some people assemble evidence for help in court proceedings, or hire private investigators, and I do understand the necessity of that. But most of us go through the marriage police stage to convince ourselves, not the court of law. OMG, he was lying. OMG, she created a fake Facebook page. OMG, the lengths they went to for cake.
It’s just not enough to trust our senses, or trust our absence of trust — we need the unholy relics of the affairs. We need tangible proof we can touch and see, that won’t dissolve into a cloud of mindfuckery. “No! I can explain that!” says the cheater. But they can’t. It’s right there.
So my chumpy Colombos — were you a marriage detective? What did you find? And was it enough to make you hand in your badge?