Summary

A woman humorously recounts her marriage to a man reminiscent of Charles Darwin, who fails to evolve in their relationship, leading to her own transformation.

Abstract

The narrator shares a satirical tale of her marriage to a man who embodies the spirit of Charles Darwin, complete with antiquated habits and a penchant for naturalism. Initially charmed by his intellect and quirky romantic gestures, she soon realizes that his eccentricities are rooted in a stubborn refusal to adapt to modern life. His obsessions with the past, including his competitive nature in Victorian-era games and his fixation on his lineage, contrast sharply with her desire for a more contemporary and dynamic partnership. Despite her attempts to salvage the relationship through romantic gestures and discussions about deep topics, she acknowledges that she has become like him, yet it is she who has evolved, finding contentment in her own personal growth.

Opinions

The narrator initially found her partner's Victorian-era inspired lifestyle endearing and mysterious, mistaking it for well-traveled sophistication.
She is frustrated by his lack of evolution in the relationship, as he remains stuck in his ways, preferring to ruminate and engage in outdated practices.
The partner's behavior, such as calling their love-making "breeding" and yelling historical phrases during intimacy, makes the narrator feel objectified and detached from the relationship.
The narrator feels that her partner's dismissal of modern conveniences, like therapy and contemporary cuisine, is

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 existence.” Everyone laughed because they thought it was just his dry English humor, which can be acceptably mean and not actually funny, but I knew something wasn’t right.

I realized shortly after that all of his quirky, “alternative” behavior wasn’t because he was well-traveled. It was because this guy was totally living in the past.

Now that we’re married, he just sits around the house, eating his kedgeree, ruminating. It’s like, I know you’re a naturalist, but put on your goddam shirt.

All he wants to do is smoke his hashish pipe and play mumblety-peg. And believe me, you do not want to play this with him, because he is extremely competitive.

He keeps ordering DNA kits from 23andMe. Um, hellooo, no matter how many times you swab, you’re not a Plantagenet, get over it!

AND — he left the wooden top off of the tooth powder again. Ugh. Is there anything worse?

I’m tired of playing the upright piano and reading tiny leather books. I tell him I want to go OUT.

Last week we were supposed to go to Brittany and Chad’s wedding but he said he couldn’t because his scurvy was acting up. Is that even a thing anymore? He asked me to go to the “apothecary for medicinals” so I went to Trader Joe’s and got a bag of limes.

Last night he called our love-making “breeding,” which used to be sexy but now just makes me feel like a mare. Not to mention that when we do make love, he yells, “the British are coming!” He doesn’t just yell it once, he yells it a few times in a row.

He’s so full of himself.

Trust me, I’ve tried. I’ve tried to be romantic. I even ordered a puzzle from Personal Creations of a photo of us — the sepia one when we dressed up like we were in that old-timey saloon — but he said piecing it together made him feel “overwhelmed.”

I made his favorite meal which required ingredients only stocked at Whole Foods, like spelt and kippers. I thumbed through the bible for the recipe.

I suggested therapy but he doesn’t believe in it.

He said happiness is not a destination. He said females are not capable of excogitation. Whatever, dude.

We talk about existentialism, nihilism, and Jeff Bezos. This exhausted me because though I recognized the words, I only read the first few sentences of their Wikipedia pages.

I realized that I’d married him in the hopes of changing him, but I’d failed. I am every woman in a Cosmopolitan Magazine article.

Not to mention, I can’t enjoy anything anymore. Like, how am I supposed to listen to Lil’ Bada$$ when I’ve heard the dulcet tones of Maria Callas? How can I enjoy the lit-up village in my Thomas Kinkade when my eyes have feasted on Kandinsky?

I’m curmudgeonly. I’m cynical. I have a beard. Oh my God, I’m him. He hasn’t evolved. I have. As I bite into my kedgeree Hot Pocket, a smile comes across my face.

Touché, Charles Darwin. Touché.