I Married Charles Darwin And He Immediately Stopped Evolving
If you ask me, his profile picture was extremely misleading.
The rugged, lumbersexual beard, the waders, the Mason jar. When it said he was from “Bedford” I thought he meant Stuyvesant. Not. Even. Close.
Oh, other details were accurate. “Smart,” it said. “Loves animals,” it said. A “Hugh Grant type,” it said. True, he had a charming self-deprecating stammer and the emotional range of a newscaster. But this was no Hugh Grant.
When we first met, he was such a romantic. I remember having picnics by the stream in Dorset. He would read Herodotus in Latin, mansplaining the plot, but I didn’t care because — oh — that accent!
He would feed me fresh mollusks because, he said, they were an aphrodisiac. We would make love from behind and spoon in bed. I’d read by the light of his pale torso.
I was like, wow, this guy is SO different. He’s so… mysterious. I decided he was my Mr. Darcy, only less accessible. Also, I was 37, so this was my last chance.
I should have known something was wrong at the wedding when in his vows, he talked about the “struggle for…
