The Rest of Us Don’t Stand a Chance

Okay, I lost forty-three brain cells just doing the research for this post. Supposedly, there’s a scandal afoot in which one of the stars of the Twilight franchise cheated on the other star of the Twilight franchise, whom she’s secretly been dating. For now, we’ll ignore the rumors that he’s so far in the closet, he can see Narnia.

She allegedly cheated with the married director of her last film, thus proving that men are pigs and starlets still sleep their way to a starring role.

Here’s where I finally started caring about this whole story: the director is married to a supermodel. Oops, no wait, still don’t care. Okay, yes I do.

If he will cheat on a woman who is paid lots of money to literally stand still and look pretty, I don’t stand a chance. Yes, I realize that my husband is a lumber salesman, not a famous movie director. But I need to admit to you that no, I’m no supermodel. I barely muster the energy for makeup most days, let alone take the time and energy to resemble anything close to gorgeous.

So basically, if we are to learn anything from this tabloid tale of love gone car-crashingly wrong, it’s that there’s no point in even trying. If I were, in fact, a supermodel and my skin was literally insured against damage, and if I used $800-a-jar beauty products on my genetically-predisposed-to-stunningness face, I would still lose my husband and the father of my kids to something shinier when he got bored. Why try?

Oh yeah, I remember now. Because I didn’t pick my husband because he sparkles. (Literally, dear readers…two of the parties in this sad tale met on the set of yet a different movie where she played a brain-dead teenager who falls down a lot even though she does not have epilepsy and he played a vampire who can’t go out in the sun because it makes him glittery-looking.) Perhaps if we all agree to stop basing our relationships on how cute we’re gonna look standing next to each other at a movie premiere, they would last a little longer.

I tried to play out this whole saga by superimposing it on my own life. It didn’t go well.

ME: Honey, are you gonna cheat on me with a co-worker?

HUSBAND: (blank stare, pause in mid-chew)

ME: Okay, I realize all six of your co-workers have a combined total of nineteen teeth and they all have beer guts and they aren’t the greatest at personal hygiene…

HUSBAND: …and they’re all men.

ME: Stranger things have happened. Just answer the question, pretending that your boss hired a woman tomorrow.

HUSBAND: Does she get to have teeth?

ME: You’re stalling.

HUSBAND: You’re damn skippy I’m stalling! I can’t figure out where this one is going. I’m pleading the fifth.

ME: So you admit there’s something that you don’t want to incriminate yourself with? OMG! My marriage is falling apart!

HUSBAND: Trust me. I have you. There’s no way in hell I’m bringing another female into my life. If she was a fraction of your level of crazy, one of you would knife me in my sleep.

ME: Awwww, I love you too!

Yes, this is the scorned supermodel. I’m toast.
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