Once upon a wife
In a former life, I was an expat wife. I would forgo my flourishing career and pack up our home every few years to follow my then-husband to wherever his company sent him on assignment. Oh, the places we’ll go, I thought when I first married him.
Some places, as it turned out, were archaeologically fascinating but a desert for the ambitious careerwoman. Sometimes I would be asked at dinner parties, “So what do you do?” To which I’d reply, thinking myself so clever, “I’m merely decorative.”
The bewildered looks that would be thrown my way told me that my attempt at blithe sophistication had landed rather unsuccessfully. There would nevertheless be the odd person who would burst out laughing—a clear indication that they “got” me and instinctively understood that I was there as an accessory to my expat spouse; we would often end up being fast friends.
And then there’d be the clueless one who’d say, “So you’re a decorator?”
A performative performance
Some wives are baggage, meant to be dragged uncomplainingly all over the place. Some wives are trophies, meant to be paraded, admired, and envied. At least that’s what their generally older, previously married husbands think.
The younger wife replaces the dowdy out-of-date model; the glamorous new version makes the man feel virile, vital, and validated once again. He even gets a glow up—a more toned physique, perhaps, or hair implants to hide that shiny pate, some botox and fillers here and there, a refreshed wardrobe befitting his cool new image, and the proverbial sportscar, Gulfstream, or luxury yacht.
And while we’re at it, why not throw in a phallic-shaped rocket that screams, overcompensating, much? Jeff Bezos, is that you?
As clichéd as they come
I’m afraid I briefly—thank goodness—was a trophy girlfriend, post-divorce, to a much older man who was in most respects as clichéd as they come. He wanted a beauty queen—a pint-sized one at that: always made up, always dressed somewhat suggestively, always in high heels, always tanned, always blonde, always at a certain weight.
While the only thing I didn’t do was wave my hand like a pageant winner as I walked, make no mistake: this was a performance, with the applause arriving in the form of male attention. He noted the approving glances of men, but what he really coveted was their envy. The Audi convertible, the renovated home by the lake in Ticino, Switzerland, certain, shall we say, surgical enhancements—they were all elements of this spectacle.
My transformation into a bombshell and the subsequent confirmation of his virility were, as far as he was concerned, what made his Pygmalion-esque life worth living.
I, however, wanted more out of a relationship than mere performance. Soon enough, the beauty queen shtick became boring, the obsession with appearances tedious, if not downright exasperating. I certainly didn’t leave a deeply unhappy marriage only to be suffocated by a controlling, aging Latino lover who was projecting onto me his fears around his own mortality.
Besides, he could only function in an environment he was comfortable in and floundered in situations where the conversation was more intellectual. As harsh as it sounds, it became increasingly evident that I may have been the trophy girlfriend for him, but he was no prize for me.
Unsurprisingly (for everyone except for him), I left.
Where life imitates art
Which brings me to Lauren Sanchez, Jeff Bezos’s wife. Much of what she does seems to be a performance: the surgically augmented poitrine sticking out of whatever she wears, the surgically rearranged face, the sartorially enhanced waistline… All for the benefit of, if we’re being honest, the male gaze.
And then there was her debut on the Met Gala stage as honorary chair, wearing a gown that referenced the infamous Madame X as painted by John Singer Sargent, complete with the pearl strap falling off one shoulder. It’s a curious choice of inspiration for Sanchez, an ex-journalist who is presumably of above-average intelligence. (Let’s not even delve into the irony of her current husband contributing in no small measure to the erosion of his own newspaper’s journalistic integrity.)
Madame X, or Virginie Gautreau, was a renowned beauty, an American socialite in Paris, married to a successful French banker. A woman of dubious repute, she was considered an arriviste by many, and reportedly took lovers, among them the notorious society surgeon and gynecologist, Dr. Samuel Pozzi.
It’s inconceivable that Sanchez was unaware of the scandal surrounding Madame X. Madame Bezos’ choice of dress was deliberate, and while one might have expected more from the tandem of Schiaparelli’s Daniel Rosenberry and Law Roach, I don’t believe she had intended for the impact of her Met Gala look to be so flat despite her inflated bosom.
Losing its shine
Many called it the “mother-of-the-bride mid.” Considering the billions she married into, was that the best she could do? Or was she just trying too hard?
Frankly, it looks like she slept her way to the top, and really, so what? If it’s cultural capital she’s after, however, she should probably rethink her sartorial choices. But then again, maybe she just wants to be true to herself. Perhaps the bursting décolletage, ultra-compressed waist, and super-tight fit correspond exactly to her self-image as the vamp-who-bagged-the-billionaire.
When will she discover, I wonder, that trophies glisten for one shining moment, only for their sheen to disappear under a layer of dust?
