The TV shows and the movies lied. They showed rich married couples as icy, loveless husks who cared more about their design pieces and the temperature of their Chardonnay than they did about each other’s hearts. So you married poor.
“We’re supposed to be more in love,” you shout at your broke husband. “Since we aren’t corrupted by luxury, our love is supposed to be pure.”
“I love you,” he says it like a question.
“No, but we’re supposed to be really in love,” you insist. “You’re supposed to come home and see me and not even care that we’re going to lose the house.”
“But when I see you I wonder how you’ll stay warm when we don’t have a house,” he says.
“With your love!” you exclaim.
“That’s stupid,” he says.
Give him the divorce papers.
“Sorry,” tell him. “I want to leave you and marry Jeff.”
“The oil magnate?”
“He’s more of a tycoon, but yes. He’s been waiting.”
Your husband will be sad, but with you gone, there’ll be less money he needs to earn.
When you call Jeff and tell him the news, he’ll shout, “Sweet! Took you long enough. What happened to your husband? Did he die of an easily treatable condition that went untreated due to insurance problems?”
Tell Jeff you just realized you’d married for the wrong reasons. Ask him if he minds that you spent eleven years with another man solely because you assumed it was wrong to marry rich.
“You were poor when you made that decision,” Jeff will reassure you. “And I couldn’t care less about anything a poor person thinks. But you’re going to be rich now. So watch what conclusions you make about me.”
You tell Jeff you’ll be more discerning from now on. You’ll marry in Fiji, then you’ll spend the next 30 years picking out furniture for the houses.
Happy You Married Poor Day!
