Faithful subjects, I have learned an important lesson from the slew of embarrassing memoirs with little girls on the covers currently ravaging our bookstores and that is: I NEED TO TALK ABOUT MYSELF MORE.
So I’m here to tell you a painful tale that lies very close to my heart.
I was in a polygamous marriage up until last week, and now we are getting a divorce.
Let me set the scene: a coffee shop, three blocks from my apartment. Steaming, well-crafted cortados. The best croissants in the city. A handsome owner. It was only a matter of time before we were wed. My friend–who I shall call only by her surname, which is Huevos Rancheros–was also his bride. We shared our glowing prize with the graciousness of two old French duchesses.
We went to his coffee shop at least once a week to bask in our husband’s beauty and sip down his exquisitely foamed creations. ALAS! Nuptial bliss was but a fleeting dream, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, for soon enough, his darker side began to show.
He was a total jerk.
Alas, young maidens, let this be a warning to you: don’t spring into polygamous matrimony after knowing someone for a mere 2 months. Most importantly, don’t spring into polygamous matrimony with someone who never comes out from behind the counter to speak to you, someone who lures you in with the richness of his espresso and the adorable way he always remembers your drink order but who has A HOLLOWNESS IN HIS EYES! A HOLLOWNESS.
We gave him three chances–he struck out three times:
1. At exactly 9:59 pm one night, he looked at us, pointed at the door, and said, “Alright, time to pack up!”
2. He was rude to Huevos Rancheros’ father. (I suspect he may have been jealous at the sight of his second wife on the arm of a tall, rugged, silver fox.)
3. He was rude to my adorable grandparents. YOU CANNOT BE RUDE TO YOUR WIVES’ RELATIVES, ESPECIALLY MY ADORABLE, SHORT, BEEN-MARRIED-FOR-50+-YEARS GRANDPARENTS.
But don’t cry for us, Argentina. Soon after the divorce proceedings began, we noticed that his lips were way too pink and he always wore Crocs. Totally gross. It’s just awkward because where are we supposed to get our cortados now?
Read more about my melodramatic love life in my upcoming memoir: I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR MEMOIR.