Your 15 Minutes Are Over

Your 15 Minutes Are Over
by Linda A. Prussen-Razzano

In the span of just two short hours, Darva Conger, the handpicked bride of Rick Rockwell, cheapened every accomplishment of her short life. Instead of being recognized for her intellect, reaching new heights in her chosen field, or setting herself to the forefront of society by the sweat of her brow and the strength of her convictions, she became an instantly infamous celebrity by tacitly engaging in the world's oldest profession.

The viewing audience was crowded with starry-eyed young women, sustained on television melodrama and Hollywood's oft-repeated, vainly foolish promise of everlasting love at first sight. Like the wedding of Lady Diana and Prince Charles a generation before, wistful girls turned their eyes to the picture of fairy-tale perfection-or so they thought. Lost among the fanfare was the notion of dignity, an outdated concept that desperately needs a revival.

Instead of love at first sight, the sad spectacle of Rick and Darva's exceptionally brief marriage ended in a media flurry of feigned regret and veiled accusations.

What, honestly, did Ms. Conger expect?

The program title alone should have given any self-respecting woman a reason to pause. Mr. Rockwell used his financial standing as his key selling point. The show wasn't entitled "Who Wants to Marry a Really Nice Guy?" or "Who Wants to Marry a Romantic Gent?" His status as a millionaire drew panting girls from all corners, vying for a chance to marry a pocketbook with a man attached.

Most folks care enough about themselves to spend more than just a few moments with a person before accepting their proposal of marriage. A lifetime of love, respect, and mutual trust isn't available at a convenience store; it if was, the word divorce would disappear instantly from our language. Did she really think she knew everything one needed to know before making such a monumental decision, since all she really knew about him was the size of his bank account?

Apparently so.

Only after the allure had worn off, when folks looked back on the show and found it distasteful, did she express regret for being part of the process. Oddly enough, her protestations rang hollow. Perhaps it was her assertion that she honored her privacy, while jockeying to appear on every program that would show her face. Perhaps it was her assertion that she didn't realize the ramifications of her actions, while attempting to portray herself as a sophisticated woman. Perhaps it was her assertions about her here-and-gone husband, attempting to portray herself as the victim; Prince Charming wasn't that princely, after all-she had been duped.

Poor, poor Darva.

She obviously failed to realize that if Mr. Rockwell was a veritable prince among men, a dreamboat checklist made to order, some wise girl would have snapped him up long ago, without the benefit of commercials, television cameras, and popcorn on the sofas of millions of strangers. Mr. Rockwell is a human being, a man, possessing all the flaws and imperfections that come with being human. She didn't find his televised hunt the least bit odd? It didn't make her wonder just the tiniest bit?

Apparently not.

What Ms. Conger also fails to realize is her culpability. No one forced her to compete for a spot on the show. No one forced her to prance in her wedding gown in front of 22 million viewers. No one held a gun to her head and made her say, "I do." Through her participation, she asked to be invited into the homes of anyone who turned on their television set. Through her very public actions, she asked to be familiarized and judged, not just by her prospective husband, but by the world.

The wedding ceremony itself, ironically the same element that drew most of the viewers, also disgusted those who didn't tune in. Beauty on parade is commonplace; pageants draw breathtaking hopefuls from all corners of the globe, anxious for their moment in the sun, a sash, a crown, and a boatload of prizes. Still, the responsibilities that come with winning such a contest do not involve the most intimate binding of two lives through holy vows. The wedding made this swollen pageant both compelling and grotesque. Instead of actors breathing life into well-known lines, these two individuals, relative strangers with no foundation except money, were performing the real thing. For those who take their vows seriously, who view their own marriage as precious and sacred, it was a sick slap in the face. Perhaps Ms. Conger and Mr. Rockwell should remember that vows are a commitment of the deepest nature, of binding honor, and are made to and before God Almighty, Himself.

Ooops. It's a little too late for that.

Ms. Conger further cheapened any renewed standing her quick annulment might have gained by shoving herself back into the media spotlight. Instead of holding firm to her assertion that the show was a mistake, that she wanted to return to her normal, private life, that she regretted her actions, she did an about face and bared it all for Playboy. As part of the publicity hype, she is once again chatting with the talking heads, once again trying to inject some dignity into a situation devoid of all its trappings. After selling her hand for the promise of a wealthy husband, she is now selling photographs of her body for quick cash.

Respect her?

Ooops. It's a little too late for that, too.

Everyone's allotted his or her 15 minutes of fame. Someone should tell Ms. Conger her time is up and politely ask her to exit, stage right. Maybe she can do that in a dignified manner; it will be one thing she won't regret later on, too.