Coupling Up
The Internet became
obsessed with the idea that the ‘trophy wife’ is dead, just like it said the ‘manic pixie dream girl’ was dead, just like it has always prophesized that (insert color) is the new black.
It’s a strange feeling when one cannot, even in her deepest, most audacious dreams, find any shred of trophy wife potential in her being. Strange, because by not being defined as such, she is palpably defined as something else — not young enough, not pretty enough, and to the credit of recent developments in Hollywood, barometer of all things relatable and essential, not successful enough. This shatters the old definition of “trophy wife” and creates for us a new goal: power coupling of the superlative kind.
As if coupling in itself is not difficult enough, George and Amal, Joseph Gordon-Levitt and multi-lingual robotics whiz wife Tasha McCauley have taken it up a notch and thrust into the spotlight a previously obscure reality. This is a scenario that is supposed to signify some sort of breakthrough — more men, or at least popular men with awards and blockbuster movies, are marrying women who are way smarter, and by Hollywood standards, unconventionally beautiful. These women have reportedly spent their lives kicking ass, and now, they are going to make gorgeous genius babies with their husbands.
For a while it seemed like the wives got the better end of the deal, not because they’re marrying celebrities but because they are living every woman’s dream of having it all. And then it seemed like the husbands did, because they bagged powerful, intelligent, possibly loaded women who also happen to be red-carpet-ready all the time. When the dust finally settled and the weddings were yesterday’s news, the Internet became obsessed with the idea that the “trophy wife” is dead, just like it said the “manic pixie dream girl” was dead, just like it has always prophesized that (insert color) is the new black.
It’s always a relief to read an article that announces the death of an unfair female stereotype, but these things almost always, though sometimes unwittingly, shape a new one. Something always is the new black — this time, she is highly educated and intelligent beyond every man’s wildest dreams, beautiful and exotic, authoritative and mysterious, and wears white gloves to the Golden Globes. Doesn’t seem like a negative stereotype at all, until the idea of it starts to make you feel like an unsatisfactory, painfully regular underachiever unworthy of George Clooney. And you don’t even like the guy.
At some point, we all wanted to be Winona Ryder, a dark, troubled hell of a mess who always happened to catch the eye of the handsome, cigarette-smoking Prince Uncharming. We wanted to be Minnie Driver in Grosse Pointe Blank, say things like “Where are all the good men dead, in the heart or in the head?” for effect, and marry a replica of boombox-carrying and/or shotgun-toting, love-professing John Cusack in real life. In the early 2000s we were all about the girl-next-door (wait, is she “dead” too?) — like Jennifer Aniston and Katie Holmes with their Brads and Toms. Then attention shifted to humanitarian supermom Angelina Jolie, then to all-mighty Beyoncé, and now, Amal. See? The woman doesn’t even need her last name.
If we’re going to be glass-half-full about it, stereotypes spark individuality. Their existence forces progressive introspection: Which one am I? Who do I want to be? Who am I, really? For a good chunk of my 20s, I fantasized about being Drew Barrymore, the first true anti-It-girl. She continues to dress like it’s the ‘90s and I love that about her. She’s not super skinny, not super pretty. I am terribly realistic when it comes to aspirations (well, as realistic as becoming Drew Barrymore can get at least). Somewhere along the way, life stepped in and I forgot about her. Now here I am, wondering if I will ever be half the powerhouse of a woman Amal is. Who am I? Who do I want to be? Which one am I, actually?
The pressure to be perfect is at an all-time high, but this time, it’s not just measured in physical terms. First we had to exfoliate and wax, then we had to exercise, now we have to read too? C’mon. “Trophy” may have been stricken from the page, but it’s still there, sitting on a shelf somewhere, casting an ominous shadow bigger than our biggest hopes and dreams. It is our greatest impediment, this tenacious need to impress other people, and it corrupts our efforts toward self-improvement, even our chances at finding love.
The good news is that this new dream woman is not a bad thing to aspire to be, unless the dream is not yours, but someone else’s. “All we are not stares back at what we are.” It does this all the time, taunting us, women, men, humans, to be superior to our former selves, and not just settle for being prize catch waiting to be plucked from obscurity and displayed like a mantelpiece.
By all means, be an Amal, or Jennifer, or Winona, or Angie. No one is stopping you from Zooey “I’m so adorable” Deschanel, if that’s your thing. Just don’t do it for the prize you expect to get when you are finally winning at life, not even for the equally successful and moderately handsome husband you might bag along the way. Don’t do it to get a George Clooney. (You don’t even like the guy.)
