Megan Stielstra's Blog

So, Ashton and Demi got married, which, I think—

Gotta pause here for a minute and say I really loved that movie One Crazy Summer. John Cusak is in it, and when I was in my Lloyd Dobler phase I saw everything he was ever in, and One Crazy Summer I thought was really fun ‘cause his drawings came to life and the dog had a cone around its head and Demi wore cornrows. All you’ve really got to do to get in my good graces is wear cornrows in a cult Eighties movie. Point being, I like Demi—Striptease notwithstanding—and was happy with her Charlie’s Angels comeback, especially ‘cause she wore some crazy lace outfit that turned into wings. So she could fly. How hot is that? I don’t have a lot to say about Ashton—never seen anything he's done, although when trying to remember where I parked, I do say, “Dude where’s my car?” and I do laugh at myself as though I’ve said the funniest thing in the Universe—except that people have said Christopher looks like him. Like, he’s been approached on the street. So I have to tease him. And then he teases me about looking like Joss Stone. Who sounds sort of like Janis Joplin, so that’s cool so far as I’m concerned.

—is great. Go, love! etc.

But I do find it interesting that in the news—which is becoming more and more interesting as the days go by in a totally disturbing sort of way (such as how Ashton+Demi and Kate Moss going to rehab is featured as prominently as Katrina evacuees returning home, or Delay indicted, or Roberts confirmed, or the death toll rising in Iraq, or fires in California, etc.)—it’s not “Ashton and Demi Get Married,” it’s “Ashton Who is Way Younger and Demi Who is Way Older Get Married and this May Decemeber (?) relationship is yet ”another story of how love conquers age.

Love conquers age. Maybe it’s the verb, but that gives me a pretty intense image. Like, love had to complete some Herculean tasks to defeat age. Love had to haul a thousand buckets of water over a very big mountain, or defeat some Death Squad (just watched Kill Bill), or sneak poison into Age’s tea after breaking into Age’s house and disguising itself as a chamber maid. You know? And I’ll tell you, I’m older than my boyfriend—not enough of an age difference to write “significantly” in front of “older,” but enough so that sometimes when I tell people he’s twenty-four, they give me a look like “What are you doing dating a twenty-four-year old when you’re thirty?” and I return the look with one of my own, which means either “I really don’t care about his age” or “He’s accomplished more at that age than you will by the time you die, Asshat,” depending on the situation—and, really, it’s the easiest thing in the world. There’s nothing to be “conquered.” There’s no reason to bring in Dr. Joyce to explain the mystique of the older woman (“The younger man is attracted to an older woman most likely because of her poise, her social graces, her contacts. She has a polish he hasn’t yet acquired,” she said. And it’s like, Come ON, Joyce! The idea that Christopher likes my POISE! I exploded a pork loin in the microwave last night! I’m on the floor cleaning up puppy pee! He’s more poised in his pajamas than I am, like ever!). There’s no reason for everybody to be getting all excited, seriously!

There’s just him and me.