by Laura Sillerman | bio

Steve Martin is gone. The last of the Sensitive Men We Want to Rescue not only got married last weekend, he married a younger woman — a much younger woman. Where did we go wrong?

Diane Keaton was there. Couldn’t she have done something? Why didn’t he marry her, for goodness sake? We could have taken that — celebrated it, even. "Annie Hall and Wild And Crazy Guy Tie The Knot," the headline would have read.

We would have reveled in the idea that Diane — who is just fine on her own, thank you — had decided she could be part of a duo. We would have loved that her lesser half was a guy whom we’ve loved since he walked out on "Saturday Night Live" with an arrow through his head.

We have loved him. Gray haired when we were not, he was the young genius who posed no threat. Still, there was something about him that was sexy as hell. Edgy. And smart –? Off the charts. Then came the news that he collected art. We got happy feet. A smart, funny, sexy, gray-haired young guy who collects art. Sign us up.

Then he got married and stayed married for eight years and, even though she was blond and beautiful, we forgave him, because she was British and we understood that he believed an association with fox hunts and ratty upholstery would add some gravitas to his wacky image. We agreed he needed her in order to get out of the trap of films like "The Jerk" and "Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid." And when his marriage to Victoria Tennant ended, we were sad for him. Sad to think he was misunderstood and lonely once again.

We knew we understood him, and we knew we were what he needed. Someone who didn’t require him to be silly, but who would laugh quietly at the little puns he made when we passed the jam in the morning. ("A toast to you," he might say as he pulled his whole wheat from the retro toaster we’d bought for our very eclectic, very tasteful penthouse).

We knew he needed to be alone to write, and we’d be fine with that. We’d be writing, too, and he would understand that we weren’t competing with him. In fact, his mere presence would be enough to propel us to the wellspring of our writing talent, and we’d win the Pulitzer and he’d say, "Let’s throw a party!"

And the funniest, kindest people would come — people who did good works — and Steve would play the banjo and then get up to say something about our life together and about how he was able to write his opera about Mary Cassatt because of our inspiration and we’d lock eyes …

But no, the dream is gone. Steve married Anne Stringfield last Saturday. She was a writer at The New Yorker (we’ll try not to hate her for that, too). That’s how they met (probably at some New Yorker party when we were out of town). Friends close to him say he’s very happy. He had been solitary and, just as we’d thought, lonely. We think we are happy he’s happy and just then we remember: We’ve been happily married for nearly 34 years to a man who likes women his own age.

Good-bye and good luck, Steve. Give us a call if you’re in town. We’d love to meet the new bride.