JFK was famous for it.
Prince Charles was never shy about it.
The Bridges of Madison County almost made you okay with it.
Angelina Jolie, always vocal about how she'd never engage in it due to the hurt it caused her mother, is in the new right now declaring it's bologna.
John Edwards denied and then accepted a child from it. American Beauty made it seem common. Fatal Attraction made it scary, yet sexy. And, First Knight made it almost romantic. I've seen it happen with friends. I've seen it happen in my own extended family.
I'm talking about adultery.
This book, though categorized as a fictional account of the deep affair between the fashionista and the musician, is just another story of adultery to add to the list. What bothers me about the whole thing is that I'm not bothered.
I'm not bothered by adultery. I'm not shocked. I'm not appalled. It's one of those things that exists, that just is.
And, I'm bothered by the fact that I'm not bothered.
I almost feel like I've been so conditioned by movies and books and watching those around me that it just seems inevitable. People cheat. People cheat every single day. Marriages, as much as I wish they were, are not always roses and sunshine. When something like an affair happens I feel like I should be shocked, dismayed. But usually the news is followed by a shrug of the shoulders. Meh. It happens.
I've always been a romantic. I've always enjoyed a good love story. I've never hidden the fact that I much prefer a happy ending to life and all its episodes. I never thought that as a romantic I'd so casually dismiss the fact that affairs exist and happen to even the most unlikely of people.
Perhaps my lack of surprise at the sheer amount of adultery that exists in the world happened just about the time I realized that remembering to turn the fan on while you take a crap is truly a romantic gesture when you're married.
I'm just saying.
