This note must come as a surprise to you seeing as how you’ve never even heard of me – that is, unless you saw me on the cover of Disc Makers. That’s right, Kim: I, like you, am a bona fide cover girl. We are on the same level. Recognize.
But even if you don’t pay attention to who I am, don’t worry, Kim. The feeling is about to get very, very mutual.
Your rise to fame through sex tapes, reality television, and Playboy led you straight into a role as a genuine socialite – which basically means that you’re out and about being famous because you’re out and about being famous because you’re out and about being famous. Oh sure, you have a perfume, and a fashion line, and a sunless tanner, and a really, really horrible song – your name is your brand, and you work it, Kim. You work it like your “Fit In Your Jeans By Friday” workout series.
But none of this is why I’m writing to you today. It’s not your fault that you are beautiful, ergo rich and famous. People shouldn’t hate you because you have a hot ass, no matter how much you flaunt it – and it’s certainly not a crime to have money.
No, Kim. I’m here to talk about yesterday’s announcement that after 72 days of marriage, you are filing for divorce.
Your August 20th wedding to Kris Humphries was all the gossipy rage – the E! network even did a 4-hour special on the literally made-for-TV, $10 million affair. That very price tag seems to be a slap in the face to your alleged support of movements such as the “Kiss Away Poverty” campaign, but I digress. As if the dollar amount on the wedding wasn’t outrageous enough, you and Humphries reportedly earned – profited – an additional $18 million simply to engage in the white gown event.
And then, 72 days later, you ended it. It’s despicable.
You make a mockery of marriage – something that I, for one, would very much like to experience, but for one reason or another has eluded me thus far. You cheapen what I hope for, and frankly, it’s insulting. Myself aside, I know so many people who are currently fighting tooth and nail to stay IN their marriages – because their promises meant something, and because they see their relationship as something more important, more essentially vital, than a mere opportunity for self-promotion.
I hope that I do get married someday, Kim. I hope that I have the privilege of having a daughter. And if I do, I can assure you that I will do absolutely everything in my power to teach her that people like you are not the ones to be admired and idolized, no matter how beautiful, no matter how powerful, no matter how wealthy you may be.
Instead, I will point her toward the true hero women:
– Lacey, who just returned from spending a month in Haiti, caring for people with so much less than what we have
– Greta, who on a teacher’s salary, devotes so much of her time – both work hours and personal hours – to planning, grading, and investing in her student’s lives
– Christy, who through her work with Dave Ramsey, passionately educates young people about the importance of making wise financial decisions and avoiding debt
– Emily, who has opened her heart and her home to an ever-shifting cast of foster children, devoting her time, energy, and finances to providing these kids with stability and love
– Carin, who is channeling her grief over losing her precious son by starting the Ben Towne Foundation, and raising over $1 million in the past year to fight pediatric cancer
– Ashley, who welcomed baby Zion as her own, and is raising the most amazing boys
I know women living with devastating medical diagnoses, and fertility concerns, and bone-crushing loneliness, and not enough money, and the death of big dreams – all with grace and aplomb. These are the heroes. These are the women that you and I should aspire to be.
You will carry on with your media circus, and probably continue to gain money, fame, and Twitter followers. But you have a huge privilege, Kim – something that not everyone has – and that’s a platform. Please use it for something more substantial than your own selfish gain.
Until then, I’m no longer paying attention.