Dear unreliable girl, I shall console your heart, broken by Tajani’s son

I am using this platform to write an open letter to you, the charming, eye-catching girl in the short skirt; to you, the young woman whom Foreign Minister Antonio Tajani advised his son not to marry, instead recommending a more serious, more reliable girl in a longer skirt. (Enough to make Silvio Berlusconi turn in his grave, as he would at best have dismissed girls like that as ‘fat arses no one would touch’). First and foremost, I want to tell you not to pay any attention to it, not to let it get to you: but just how pathetic is the minister’s son to ask his father who he should marry? (To be honest, an internet search reveals that Tajani’s son is already married; so the minister made up the conversation from scratch, recounting it the other day at a public event, probably embarrassing both his son and his daughter-in-law – who knows how long her skirt is, at this point). Moreover, we are discussing the very same minister who, in the event of bombing, suggests staying away from windows, and whose famous plea for peace was ‘No more drones, no more missiles, no more atomic bombs’: a misfit, in essence. Setting aside the minister for a moment, I would like to address you, the charming young woman described as ‘having had several boyfriends and being prone to indulging in the odd croissant’: I happen to appreciate croissants, especially for breakfast with a cappuccino. Irreputable though you may be, I find you appealing and would even consider marrying you. I am prepared to take that risk, because love inherently involves a degree of uncertainty. I do not care about the length of your skirt; in fact, you may remove it entirely, as it is clearly a source of discord. Size is irrelevant; what matters is how you choose to wear that skirt. If anything, I am more interested in your lingerie: whether it is edible, or at least easy to remove—even better if you are not wearing any at all.

One may dress as one prefers; whatever is worn is merely a superfluous detail that one hopes will be shed as soon as possible. What is at issue regarding Minister Tajani is not so much his notion of the kind of woman to marry, but rather his notion of marriage itself, which implies a melancholic form of love – tamed rather than domestic – where only the man chooses and there is no trace of female desire: According to the minister, a woman is passive, either taken or discarded, and this infuriates me, as a man, even more than it does you women, because I too want to be desired, chosen in turn – and in my case, go ahead and judge me by the hem of my trousers; I have the tailor adjust it with every new pair so that it’s always perfect. We can blame patriarchy, but the truth is that Minister Tajani’s view of marriage isn’t all that different from the view that people who consider themselves more progressive have of relationships: that is to say, it’s like a job, an investment, a project. In short, something utterly tedious: as if love were a start-up or, worse still, a savings plan for a pension fund. ‘Ti ho sposato per allegria’, reads the title of a famous play by Natalia Ginzburg; and, after all, I can’t see any other reason to get married, other than precisely for the joy of living as a couple. So go on, marry that ‘serious, reliable girl who’ll be a good mother’ and who ‘guarantees you a stable home’ as if she were an anti-seismic plan; I will opt for the woman who wears her confidence openly, and I sincerely hope that she will also choose me. To the woman who defies expectations, I extend an invitation: should you find yourself disillusioned by the son of Tajani, who abandoned you to marry a woman whose sole virtue is her ability to project domestic stability, know that I will be here to offer you solace.