Then the dream faded into the miasma of multi-million dollar divorces. Well, OK, they did move on. Liz married a construction worker she met at rehab. And Brad will soon enough come out of the closet.
I don’t know why we even bother. Golden couples are the scuttlebutt of water cooler mini-conventions but it really just gets more interesting when they break up. When they finally reach that tipping point and the golden couple decides to drink the Kool Aide, we forget how good they looked together and anticipate how bad it gets. Schadenfruede, oh how we are all so guilty of it.
I can truly say that breaking up is really one of the most difficult things that you can do in your life. It doesn’t matter if you are the breakee or the breaker, both are equally nasty. I dread it like a toothache and pinched nerve combined while watching Oceans 12. I mean how do you just say goodbye or hear a goodbye from someone who has heard you burp without passing judgment? Someone who has seen you without any concealer? Someone who has seen you cry for no reason whatsoever? This is heavy stuff, you know. And somehow after a breakup, it’s these little moments you remember fondly.
In celebrity breakups, there are A-lister-filled indiscretions, paparazzi shots of millionaire celebs in tropical escapes mourning their loss, disputes over furs and Bentleys and, yes, the dramatic nervous breakdown or overdose. In real life, you just get fat, drunk and watch the entire six seasons of Sex and the City. Depending what kind of person you are, it’s either a blessing or a curse to realize that the only one watching this sordid drama of yours is you.
That’s why the tabloids serve some comfort. Uma got her beau and looks fabulous. Nicole Kidman is finally on her own. Ivana’s having her Itallian stallion harem. We believe it’s a second chance for that somethin’ something. But after going through enough of them (gauge from the fingers on your hand), you realize that for mortals life-after-a-breakup is a different thing.
You go on an endless string of mercy blind dates. You date all of your friend’s cousins, neighbors and co-workers and pretend to like them all to spare their feelings. This means you go on a second date, even if you and your date are chilled and stirred, just because you don’t want to ruffle feathers among your mutuals. Your steak is so bad you feel like you’re chewing wool, the conversation like a bland question and answer game in the Knowledge Channel, and time seems to be as long as the equator.
Then you have that rebound guy that you slightly like. You flirt, send pseudo forwarded e-mails and have "group" dinners that eventually condense to dinner a deux. You fool around a bit then call it a day. The end is usually without climax and you end up eating away your regret.
Then you have that fling that will screw you up, keeping you from being normal for The One. You think you really like him but here’s the catch: He doesn’t like you, he’s gay, or he’s married. So you toss up this salad of embarrassment, desperation and self-loathing. In between all this, you make drunk dials to your ex or Pizza Hut (sometimes both).
You always find The One just when you’re about to give up. He can be that co-worker who was always there for you during happy hour, that old high school chum who you reconnected with, an acquaintance that turned into your soul mate during your post-breakup binges, but whatever it is, those corny devoted suitors (Ick, do they still happen?) always lose somehow. I know its so clichéd, like kissing in the rain or proposing by the beach, but nonetheless like all these clichés, they are indeed precious and sweet.
Of course, this all not scientifically correct. Mr. Rebound could be The One, the toxic fling could actually just be Mr. Rebound and The One could actually just be Mr. One-in-Many. After all the dog and pony shows, life has its way of surprising you. For now it’s just vodka, DVDs and a hell of a lot of Billie Holiday. Sit back, mope and learn how to knit.