“When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one’s self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.”
–Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
I wrote about Lance Armstrong back in August when the “shocking” revelation hit the airwaves like he had just pedaled over a cliff bigger than the fiscal one. Back in August, I was much more tolerant of that revelation than I am now. Back in August, I still kind of liked and admired the guy and felt only slightly, not fully, bamboozled.
Today, five months later, I no longer like or admire him and in fact am on the verge of wishing I would have never laid eyes on the man. Never worn his yellow bracelet. Never secretly wished I could emulate him. And certainly, unequivocally, never put him up on a pedestal which he did not deserve to be hoisted upon.
You see, Lance suckered us big time. He lured us in and then spat us out the moment he no longer needed us to fawn and drool and ooh and aah over him and his accomplishments. His accolades. His smart, rich, and sexy. The moment he was done impressing us with his fiction, he left us high and dry.
Was Oprah really surprised that “Lance did not come clean in a manner she expected?” I know I’m a faster marathoner than the woman (thank god), but I truly didn’t think I was smarter. (Fine, I may have thought it but my bank account proves otherwise.) She said she studied for that interview like it was a college exam, reading everything she could get her hands on and compiling a list of 112 questions to ask His Highness, but they didn’t much matter. And to that I say two things: one, it confirms O did not attend college because no one is sober long enough to study that much and secondly, what a waste.
What a waste of her time on a man who did not deserve her intrigue. What a waste of American athlete’s time everywhere – thinking here is an individual on the up and up, who is totally above board, who we should all befriend and bend over backwards to love and cherish. We should have genuine concern for him, his family, his life, his interests, his needs, his experiences.
You know what Oscar Wilde said about experience? He said “Experience is merely the name men give to their mistakes.”
Screw you, Lance. You are and were and will forever more be a phony.
The romance is over.
Yet, I would be remiss if I did not thank you for being such a disheartening experience. Truly.
Because just as one of your many ex-girlfriends once sang: You’re My Favorite Mistake.
