Love is Blind?

They say love is blind.

Or at least that's what they tell us. Though I sometimes believe that the besotted lovers prefer to blind themselves rather than face the horrible naked truth. Very often during the aftermath of a bitter separation, we see the wronged victim tearfully claiming they never knew what a two-faced monster their other half had become.

Just the other day, my erstwhile pal Whispery Wilhelmina came to me with the news that she'd finally found the guts to dump her abusive husband and walk away. Certainly found that worthy of a celebration!

Paul : It's about time!
Wilhelmina : Oh but he has changed! He wasn't like this when we got married.
Paul : He isn't Jekyll and Hyde. Unless he suffered severe head injury when he slammed against the door you closed on him, I doubt he has turned into a different person.
Wilhelmina : But he was so nice with his sweet whispering words. He took care of me.
Paul : Are we talking about the same fella here? You seriously telling me you never noticed? Your ex was a fucking bastard.

Unfortunately I have very little patience for such self-pity. That whiny weepy woe is me bit after a breakup? I'm not too great with that. But come afterward when you're ready to shed the detritus of a shitty romance and I'd be ready to help you get your groove back.

But don't ever tell me you never knew the fella.


My Hyde comes to play!
Seriously. Short of a radical brain transplant, no one changes that drastically. Even Dr Jekyll showed probable signs of going all wacko and I bet his wife would have known if she'd been watching closely. The early signs of a bigger problem are already there. Most just choose to ignore it.

Or misinterpret the warning signs through rose-tinted glasses. Choosing to ignore the obvious, they tend to place their paramours on a pedestal deftly twisting their faults into assumed virtues to fit the sainted image.

That fella who waltzes in late all the time. You call it arriving just in time.
That fella who cuts across the queues to get you your tickets and your drinks. You call it romantic.
That fella who abuses the service staff for the smallest mistake. You call it efficient management skills.
That fella who double parks in the middle of the street sticking his middle finger at those who dare to oppose him. You call it confident machismo.

And Mrs Jekyll probably thought her husband was making wrinkle-removing face lotions in his sinister lab.

Seriously. Let's call that fella an unconscionable bastard, shall we? So now who's the fool? You didn't know any better? Please. Keep your eyes wide open next time. The clues are always there.