Wednesday, September 16, 2009

The Bad Touch


I hate politics. I keep myself removed from all things C-span if possible. I simply do not care. I do, however, when I feel so moved, quietly support a candidate and cast my vote if I see fit. Usually, I just bow out of it. I am fine with letting other people decide the fate of the free world. I am the Queen of my own precious universe, and I have better things to do like making sure homework is completed, lunches are packed, bills are paid and plants are watered. You know, the truly important matters of the day. You go on and debate the war in Afghanistan, the health care crisis, and our greedy banking system like you have some control over it, and I’ll be on the back porch with a glass of wine. Let me know how all of that turns out. However, lately there is one issue that is causing me to actually read something in the paper besides the obituaries: Mark and Jenny Sanford.

I must state for the record that I have never been a fan of Mr. Sanford. I thought he was a kook at the get-go, and I stand by that assessment. I’m not here to talk about his political career or lack thereof. Regardless of your political leaning, we all agree he screwed up by lying in front of God and everyone about his travels and indiscretions. I’m here talking about this fool because I have never seen a forty-something man so giddy over a woman before. If there wasn’t a well placed, jilted wife relaxing in luxury on the deck of a million dollar beach house, I might even giggle about his whole sordid mess.

We have all become accustomed to the protocol for cheating politicians. It doesn’t matter if you are the President of the United States dropping your britches in the Oval Office for an average looking intern, or the governor of New Jersey dropping your britches for a same-sex member of your security detail. It goes the same route each time. First, they vehemently deny even knowing the person. Second, they stand at a podium and confess the sin, begging for mercy, saying it was a moment of weakness, and praying that a big celebrity dies soon or a plane crashes to get their name out of the headlines. Meanwhile, the wife stands beside him, staring at her feet, grinding her teeth and cursing him like the sailor she wishes she could hook up with in retaliation for his dalliances.

The Sanford’s were different though. This time, the wife said, “You’re on your own” and let him stand at the podium solo. Second, he didn’t say it was just a fling, a moment of weakness. He said she was his Soul Mate, “This was a whole lot more than a simple affair. This was a love story - a forbidden one, a tragic one, but a love story at the end of the day.” He just can’t seem to quit talking about her. He has come down with an acute case of Mention-itis. This syndrome is most often caused by puppy love, and he’s got it bad. He said he’s going to try to fall back in love with his wife. Good luck with that one, Mr. Governor. Doesn’t he know you aren’t supposed to say that out loud, much less to the media?

It took him more than forty years, but he finally found the love of his life. At this point, his best bet would be to remove himself from politics, concentrate on real estate or some other such rich man hobby, and spend the rest of his days loving his Argentine sweetheart. Maybe he will realize that life is too short to be in a marriage where he must learn to love his wife again. Odds are, that ship has sailed. And the sour grapes between them won’t exactly make for a loving atmosphere for their sons.

If I could talk to Jenny Sanford, I would tell her to move on, cut her losses. This wasn’t the man of your dreams, and you know it. It was a business partnership at best, and the deal went bad. Stop wasting your energy on someone who doesn’t love you. Dare to come down from your tower, and I’ll bet you will find that the love of your life is out there somewhere, too. You settled the first time. Try to hold out for true love on the next go-round.

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