Friday, May 2, 2014

On Concious Uncoupling

Earlier this month Gwyneth Paltrow announced her divorce from her husband, but she cleverly didn’t call it that. She gave it a name that will live in our hearts either sincerely or as a joke forever, she called it “Concious Uncoupling”. Gwyneth is the Hitler of Home Economists. She can’t do anything normally without it becoming a propaganda machine. She is worse than Martha Stew and that woman went to actual prison. I want to point out a couple (get it?) of flaws is Gwyneth’s statement. First, she takes a moment to advise her fans and by doing so she acknowledges that we deserve an explanation. Celebrities may get to keep marriages a secret, but that won’t work for divorces. Fans are rabid for this kind of info and she breaks it down quick and simple, by controlling the conversation. Now it’s something she wants to talk about, because it’s something she fucking invented. I think we lost the feminism thingie when we as women stopped taking our marriages seriously. Let me back up a step. First. I think it’s really really hard to be married whilst famous. I think it’s hard to be good-looking and tied to one person in general. I think that is compounded by fame and all the people that want to fuck you to feel famous themselves.

But I think you are dumb to get married at all if all you are going to do is spend time apart. That is the first problem. If you want to be married, you have to change everything about your life as needed to stay in constant contact with that person. This is essential or you grow apart. You can’t be swanning around the world without each other if you intend to stay connected. Let’s call that Concious Togetherness (TM) and let’s pretend I invented it. In her quick blurb, Gwyneth tells us that they have spent a year “both together and apart” trying to work it out. What’s going unsaid is that both probably had other people to date during this "difficult" year. Let me underscore how difficult it is to be faithful to your husband when you are a fucking someone else.

Back to Gwnnie’s announcement, almost immediately the tone shifts and we find ourselves being spoken to by an erstwhile psychotherapist (I’m guessing) who wants to tell us that marriage is outdated anyway because we live so long now that anyone can get bored with anyone. I bet Medical School took the whole day for him. And you want to go down like that, Gwyneth? Making up reasons why you couldn’t just stay married. Happiness is overrated and I’m not sure either one of you has a right to declare that you aren’t happy until you compare it to something in the real world.

Her real problem is that we live in a society that forces us to specialize in everything; forget the Age of Information, we live in the Age of the Orgiastic Extreme. There used to be a place for those who pursued a broad range of information and we called that person "well-rounded". How quaint it sounds now. Instead, every sport has an "extreme" component. Frisbee is now ridiculously called Ultimate Frisbee. Bungee Jumping is something couples do on first dates. You can't just ski down the hill, you have to take the double black diamonds intended for "Experts" only. Our collective narcissism is reaching a critical mass hysteria. We are constantly enraged because we are defined so narrowly. That narrowness sharpens to a point creating aggression. Like the bones of the models we rever, these sharp edges define our youth. It's not fat we hate, it the softness. There is no room for vulnerability when a boundary-less communication reigns. We are drowning in a fatal deluge of words and not really saying anything. The information we share is isolated to the flesh. How we look, what we wear, what we eat or – more importantly – don’t eat, is the only currency. People used to be genuinely concerned with the state of their souls. How naive that sounds now.

I want sadness over divorce to return. I don't want it to be a celebration. I don't want the divorce party first. Have one, just not right away. I'm positive your kids don't want it either. I want you to be broken open by this, I want you to shed a single tear on live TV. I want you to dye your black. Then shave it off. I want you to keen in the streets and wear mourning clothes and stay celibate for a year. I want you to tell me that you will never love again, that he was the only man for you, that no one will ever love him like you do. I want you to prove to me that it actually mattered.

Oh, wait. Wait a minute. He’s admitting it was all his fault? That’s like Hollywood code for “She found me fucking some chick on the kitchen counter”. The same counter he fucked you on? Where you conceived your children and subsequently created a small but tasteful shrine and altar to worship, well, the miniature versions of yourselves? Then nevermind, honey, you can do better. I will order the bouncy castle.

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