Did anyone see the New York Times video tidbit in “Vows” — a column of people’s How We Met Stories called “An Imperfect Beginning“? HuffPo also ran it with the title “I Fell For My Husband When He Was Still a Married Man.”
Fittingly enough, the couple met at a toxic oil spill.
I guess that passes for romance these days. A single woman, a married man, a petroleum disaster… My parents met as college students on the Wabash Cannonball playing bridge. Isn’t that quaint and ridiculous? No one was married. No one had complicated obstacles to their happiness, like two kids and a clueless spouse. It was still societally acceptable in the 1960s to get married and stop dating. Of course, I’m sure some people still did screw around on the side, but they didn’t publish their indiscretions in the New York Times “Vows” pages and pass it off as “imperfect” sophistication.
Imperfect. As if destroying children’s home life and playing some nameless woman for a fool was a crime of imprecision. Not quite perfect. Missing the mark a bit, oh well! Who but the most judgmental expects PERFECTION?
“People have baggage, people have past relationships,” said Rebekah Gordon.
As if the existing wife was an inconvenient duffle bag. Here’s the thing with cheating, Rebekah — if he’s married, she’s in his PRESENT. Oh, but now all that is in the “past” so it’s a past relationship? Who can fault you? Heck, none of us are virgins. We all have pasts! Nicely played mindfuck there.
What’s weird to me is how Gordon appropriates all the language of chumpdom — of being hard done by, but plucky and triumphing over adversity. She wants us to know she is authentic. “Being complicated makes us ‘real’.” The relationship is worth fighting for. There is a third person in our marriage.
“That third person is Vince’s kids and his marriage and dealing with the pieces of that that are still with us and will be with us,” she says. “[But] being able to move forward as a family unit is worth fighting for.”
No, you amoral fuckwit — the “third person” in this relationship was YOU. Vince Taylor, the dim-witted wood worker, seems square jawed and oddly silent on the issue of his kids. Hey, he was crazy about the OW, everyone will have to adjust. Imperfection happens!
Imperfect. Not immoral or unkind or an utter clusterfuck of narcissism. But who are we to expect perfection? Love is messy and complicated, but it’s worth “fighting for.”
I dunno. That’s like saying you love waterfowl, so you dump a tanker full of oil into the ocean, and then take winsome photos of yourself scrubbing petroleum sludge off of half-dead ducks. Sludge you poured into their environment. Happy nuptials Mr. and Mrs. Sludge.
This column ran previously.