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Honestly, I could not care less. And neither should you.
I understand that I’m swimming against the tide on this one. Collectively, we have turned voyeurism into a cottage industry, trampling the line that used to separate people’s private lives from their public personas. Television programs like Entertainment Tonight and The Insider, publications like the National Enquirer and websites like TMZ.com work 24 hours a day to satisfy our unquenchable desire for business that is none of our business. Paparazzi hound celebrities night and day, hoping to be on the scene when some Hollywood starlet’s bikini malfunctions on a private yacht off the coast of Bimini, or Lindsay Lohan exits her latest limo, sans undergarment.
Stop the presses, Kim Kardashian is PREGNANT again! Tune in for FIRST PHOTOS of her burgeoning baby bump! And while you’re here, check out Randy Travis’ DUI mug shot and our photo montage of “Reality TV Stars’ Plastic Surgery Nightmares!”
It’s sad. It’s unnecessary. And it’s getting worse.
|Who needs a life? We have Lilo!|
To hear some people tell it, this is the first garage-area romance in the history of NASCAR. Nothing could be further from the truth. In the mid-1990s Elton Sawyer and Patty Moise competed weekly on what is now the NASCAR Nationwide Series, as husband and wife. Nobody questioned their competitiveness, no one worried about them “taking it easy on each other” on the race track, and no one fretted about them exchanging team secrets across the pillow.
"I used to race against my dad, and it's no different than racing against my husband," said Moise at the time. "When I'm on the track, I concentrate so hard that I don't even think about it."
Those were true words then. They are equally true today.
Even under the best of circumstances, divorce is an unhappy process. Marriage is supposed to be for life, and when relationships fail, the emotions, pain and embarrassment are difficult to deal with. Imagine how much harder it is when you’re on the cover of the Weekly World News, or interrogated on the topic at your weekly Friday afternoon press conference.
Most of us will never have to deal with reporters sifting through our trash in search of titillating information. We’ll never have to endure photographers hiding in the shrubbery, hoping to snap a clandestine, 3 a.m. photo. We’ll never know what it’s like to nurture a new relationship while under a microscope, or weather storms of unjust, judgmental criticism, leveled by people we’ve never met.
There will always be people who exist vicariously, substituting the Real Housewives, Jerry Springer or Honey Boo Boo for real life.
Most assuredly, however, I will not be one of them.