I was going to save this for my deathbed, after we had been married 75 years and had a bunch of grandchildren, but I think it’s best to clear the air: our burgeoning relationship is based on a lie. Just one, but I am afraid you’ll think it’s a pretty big one. In my profile, I said I love museums. But the fact is that I really don’t. This will probably come as a big shock to you, but I hope you can see past it and focus on my other attractive interests that we share, like a passion for the outdoors.
These last three weeks have been so great and special, but I think it’s going to be too much for me to carry on pretending I like museums, and eventually you’d be able to detect my disinterest and it would put a damper on your own enjoyment. I loved seeing you so excited to go to the Dutch Masters exhibit the very day you’d finished that 900 page biography of one of them. And the gluten-free butterscotch blondie I had in the café at the MFA was truly the best I ever tasted. And I really liked the gift shop at the historical society and have been using the tote bag nonstop, as you probably noticed. But I have to admit, I would kind of prefer to wait for you on a bench outside and watch pigeons or just meet you for dinner when you’re done.
Even if I didn’t put that on my profile, I suspect you would assume that I love museums. Who hates museums? I mean, can you hate culture? Art? No, of course not. I mean, I like learning new things, but I really would rather do it from the comfort of my laptop or couch while watching a Ken Burns documentary or an ethnic cooking show. But you know, you can’t go speculating and making assumptions like that. Just because I went to a small liberal arts college doesn’t mean I like museums or understand art. People like different things, you know. What about all the other unique things I included in my profile, like how I'm certified to teach Pilates and belong to three book clubs? Doesn’t that make a person worthy of love for a lifetime?
It’s really kind of elitist, this attitude of yours. Lots of people in the world don’t even have access to museums or know what they are. Are you saying that those people don’t merit your respect? Maybe some people are too smart for museums. They prefer not to stand elbow to elbow with tourists or even actual art lovers, struggle to read the tiny, awkwardly placed explanations, risking DVT because they stand too long with a pretentious head tilt in front of a canvas that is pure black. Maybe they prefer to be outside in nature, where real art is, as lots of my friends say. Actually, that Facebook photo of me in hiking boots was totally misleading. I wore them only once (on a date) and really kind of hate hiking, which includes walking on the beach.
I didn’t make you go to the cat café or the Etsy pop up (art, hello!) or Allison Arngrim’s reading of Confessions of a Prairie Bitch: How I Survived Nellie Oleson and Learned to Love Being Hated even though I really wanted you to go with me. And I don’t think liking those activities makes me a philistine. But that’s what you would call me, you blowhard snob.
I’m going to say it: museums can go fuck themselves. And so can you. Let’s end the charade now. You need to be with someone who would not prefer stabbing herself in the eye with cuticle scissors rather than stand for one minute on a Revolutionary War battlefield with you, you poseur windbag. Thanks for wasting three weeks I could have spent being authentic.
Yours truly,
Jane
P.S. I eat meat.