I grew up in the wealthy and idyllic suburb of River Forest, la de da. In fact, as a good buddy of mines mother always states, "North" River Forest. Because the underlings, unwashed, and inferior live in "South" River Forest; the land of the untouchable other half. As an adult, my work has taken me into many of the homes there and in Oak Park as well; ick. I still hate Oak Park, especially the high school; an institution which prides itself on the mastery of euphemism and avoidance, and the protection of those with money. Motivation to write this came from a job I was doing for a women who was in the process of a divorce. The divorce that was thrust upon her by a husband who found it necessary to fuck younger women all the time. My contention is, that if you still want to fuck young women, then why the hell did you ever get married? Just a thought. Coming from someone who has never been married, probably for that very reason; I believe in it. Maybe this piece should be the expectations of an unconscious and chicken shit man who hates his mother but can't confront her? So instead of taking his testicles back from her, he punishes every women he encounters, especially any women who has the stupidity to love him. They all surrogate for his impotence and anger. A man who envisions his dick as a weapon of mass destruction and panders to, and strokes his ego, every time he pulls it out. That for another day; got caught in that for a second, sorry, back to the story; though that is part of the story.
I walked into the house, a exceedingly lovely home. You could smell the perfection in the air; not a thing misplaced anywhere; pristine. Houses that look this way are usually places filled with shame and broken childhoods, hiding behind the pretense of invincibility and wealth. Money has a tendency to mask pain and insecurity, fronting an image of perfection to the world. How can I be less than, because everything I have tells me that I am much more than? The imperative becomes making the outside appear without blemish because the insides are so mangled, confused and damaged. Everything was so physically beautiful, and hospital sanitary. Dust would not have the disrespect to fall on any item within. Flowers adorned many of the tables and the massive the fireplace in the center of the front room. Though beautiful as they were, the flowers made the house smell like a funeral home. Aware of the death of their marriage, I guess the smell was appropriate. An extraordinarily expensive reconstruction of a turn of the century Victorian. A "price is no object" remodel, done by artisans and proud professionals at the top of their games. Stunning old oak trim and cross cut oak flooring overwhelmed the eye. It was an explosions of expert craftsmanship. Kitchen: Viking, Thermador and Sub-Zero. Handsome and lovely at the same time. A simply gorgeous home. Sunday magazine worthiness.
At the front door began a staircase that landed about 5 steps above and broke to the second floor about 15 steps later. The rails and woodwork were a complex interplay of intricate cross patterns and medalians weaving throughout the entire structure. I was looking at a piece of artwork, the medium, wood; it was so elegant. Should be in an art gallery somewhere, its beauty indescribable. What caught my eye was all along the walls up the stairway were photos, there were 40 of them, 40! I counted them! These photos were not of family and friends, a chronicle of a life lived through time as one would expect. These photos were of one singular and primary event in her life, her wedding day. It struck me deeply how important that day was for this women. I felt a ponderous sadness as I looked at them. How happy she appeared in the glow of promise of that day with her new husband. Excited, aroused, expectant, fulfilled, content; the mythological culmination of an epic romance. The perfect man, the perfect dress, the perfect day. If the house looked as I described, imagine what her wedding dress looked like. The ideal of feminine class and sexuality all contained in a flowing trained silk experience, captivating and graceful. Jesus, women are so stunning on their wedding days. A picture of sexual purity, youthful innocence; exuding a felling of unbounded security. She easily could have been a celebrity or royalty. Maids dresses were as protocol demanded, mandatorily ugly, as were the maids themselves. By the look in the pictures, it must have been in spring or early summer; the day was ideal. Even God shined his approval on this communion. It could not have been any better. What an auspicious and positive way to start a new life together. But it is only one day. When it ends, it's over.
It is the beginning of a real life. The importance of that day diminishes and recedes as life moves forward, or it should. To this women it seemed that her entire life was wrapped up in that one experience. That all her happiness and identity can be traced to that one event. That the countless days after the wedding are meaningless in comparison to that moment. Like a young girl reliving her Prince Charming fantasy over and over again. That was a day when she was happy where all her past was forgotten, all her childhood pain was subdued and quiet. Now in the midst of a brutal divorce, her perfect man failed and common like all others; those pictures mock that image of happiness. How could I be so blind? Broken to her very core. Nothing in life is real or true. Love, if it exists at all, is a cruel and painful joke. How could it come to this? I was so happy. Why can't men be faithful? Why are they so immature? Why isn't one women enough for them? Why are men such liars? I thought he was happy with me. How is it I didn't see him for what he is? He tricked me. All men are the same, little dogs in heat, always spreading their seed. What did I do wrong? Nothing. I am blameless. I didn't have an affair. I didn't ruin our life together, he did. I didn't ruin my wedding day, he did. I didn't fail my expectation, he did. I am so hurt. Why did he betray me?
The answer is simple, she betrayed herself. Her expectation laid a fatal trap for this betrayal to occur. The seed was set the day they decided to marry. Her desire to live the fantasy life blinded her to his real nature. The financial security he offered was much too attractive to let some of his innocent behaviors and indescretions get in the way. Living in this projected unreality never allowed her to see what he was really about. Everything on the outside fit her ideal of what a perfect life should look like; why challenge that impression? It would have caused her too much angst or change to look deeply at her own wounds, better to remain unconscious and refuse the obvious reality. It also didn't allow her to see the truth of why she would choose a men like him in the first place. What motivated her to fall in love with a man who she knew, in her heart, was naturally unfaithful. Constructing this perfect vision out of her inability to value her own truth, and engage life and its reality. It was destined to fail from the very start. For he was always that way and she excused, denied and avoided seeing it because that would mean her fantasy was just that, a figment of her need and childish imagination. She protected him from exposure by shielding herself from the truth. So really who's to blame? If I choose not to be aware of something and see the truth it offers me, then who's fault is that? Who can I blame? There is no one but me.
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