Early in my friendship with the woman who would become Mrs. Tall Rob, we were eating lunch together with friends at work. For a few years, there were four of us who ate together regularly. First there were two men and two women. Then the other guy left for law school and we had a rotating spot open for additional visitors. After a summer of my beleaguered venting about singlehood, one of the women suggested that the future Mrs. Tall Rob (then single herself) should join us for lunch. I don’t remember this event, but it has been retold to me enough that I am confident relating it to you here. At some point during the meal, I mentioned how I had been watching seasons of The Mary Tyler Moore Show on DVD. Completely unprovoked, Mrs. Tall Rob offered the hot take “Mary Tyler Moore? Didn’t she have a really bad facelift a few years ago?” I would like to say I laughed it off or was merely stunned and registered my mock disappointment. But, being 25 years old and sorely upset, I simply picked up my lunch tray, threw out my food scraps, and returned to my desk. No word spoken, no meaningful eye contact—just an abrupt exit. I was floored. How could someone speak so about my dear Mary?
In fairness to Mrs. Tall Rob, she had no idea the minefield she had blithely ventured into. Mary Tyler Moore had been my number one celebrity crush since I caught re-runs of The Dick Van Dyke Show and The Mary Tyler Moore Show on Nick at Nite in fourth grade. I didn’t have the idea of a woman being “hot” at that point in my life. I still thought girls had cooties or whatever. As others have said, though, there’s something about Mary. I thought the shows were funny and I liked that Dick Van Dyke’s character shared my name. It was also fun that one show was in black-and-white and one show was in color. Fast forward about 10 years later or so and I am in college with a DVD player, free time, and some cash from washing dishes. The collected works of both shows were available on sporadically released box sets, so I dutifully purchased them and (re)watched some of my favorite 22-minute bursts of joy. As a young man, I saw Mary in a new light and realized that she was extremely my type. Although I didn’t have the words for it myself, one of the co-workers mentioned above characterized my taste as “the girl next door; milk and cookies.” I denied it in the moment, but she was completely correct. Also correct was my initial thought that both shows featuring Mary were worthwhile from a comedic or dramatic standpoint. Sure, there are plenty of duds or clunkers among the hundreds of episodes shared between the two series, but there were enough all-timers in there to make my quest through five seasons of The Dick Van Dyke Show and seven seasons of The Mary Tyler Moore Show worthwhile as I continued to navigate life after college and after singlehood.
Given that background, you might be surprised to know that I hadn’t yet read Mary’s 1995 biography. Thankfully, the local library had purchased it nearly 30 years ago, so I was able to easily access it. Knowing some of the details of the contours of her… life… I was already familiar with some of the stories contained inside. Its 315 pages read quickly and give an effective overview of her career to that point. I don’t want to rehash it all here, so I’ll pull out the points that were salient to me and leave you to consider the rest.
Early on, she recounts sexual assault from a parent’s friend and her mother’s subsequent denial of it. Mary was six at the time. She offers in reflection that “Strange it is how events that change a life inside and out take no more than a moment — ‘You got the Van Dyke Show.’ ‘Let’s get married.’ ‘It didn’t happen.’ I never felt the same about her after that. My mother, by her denial, had abused me far more than her friend” (p. 13). That’s utterly devastating. As her life proceeds, Mary does not return to the moment of the assault as definitive on her development, but the sense of wanting to avoid disappointing her parents does give some sense of its indirect impact.
She does spend time dwelling on the times when things go wrong, though. Early in her career (i.e., before the Van Dyke Show), she lost out on a part to another actress. They were the last two to be called back and it seemed like Mary was sure to get the bit. She makes the loss all too relatable by writing that “An actress named Penney Parker got the job along with a useless section of my heart” (p. 80). It’s really something to be able to convey that late-adolescent feeling of heartbreak so many decades later. It’s also a revealing comment about the nature of holding onto spite, ill will, or envy even though these feelings are harmful. It’s a lesson I find myself needing to re-learn sometimes. I’m glad Mary and I have had that in common. I also felt a little bit of commonality with her when she recalled how the writers profiling her for articles said she was an “Ice Princess.” Now, stay with me. I don’t think of myself as emotionally reserved (just emotionally stunted), but I did feel my heart sing a little louder when reading that Mary “was brought up to be a perfect person, or to look like a perfect person. So [she] never wanted anyone to know that there were any of the dark shadows [she] now can talk about” (p. 155). That’s maybe not as unique a feeling as I think. Many people struggle with perfectionism and how to react against it. I’m sure it’s harder for someone as in the public eye as a media star. Still, that notion of “celebrities: they’re just like us!” feels a little silly to celebrate in my early 40s but it does also make me feel a little less alone when those moments of dread coming crawling along.
When I think of Mary, the three roles that come to mind are Laura Petrie, Mary Richards, and Beth Jarrett. In relating how she prepared for that last role in Robert Redford’s Ordinary People, Mary maybe takes the relatability angle too far. She excitedly gets dressed and then into the car to drive to the try out for the role as Donald Sutherland’s cold, distant wife. Then, against all common sense and observable evidence, she declares “I don’t have the kind of looks that stop traffic. I say this from my most well-analyzed and now relatively secure heart” (p. 206). C’mon, Mary. You know that’s a lie. You’re doing the double self-deprecation move. That’s when you falsely claim to be falsely modest about something just so that a friend can reassure you with “No, that’s not true! You’re not giving yourself enough credit” except, that, expecting this reaction, you began by giving yourself a too on-the-nose compliment, so that even when receiving that reassurance, you and your friend both realize that your initial comment was meant to be self-serving praise. Mary knows she’s attractive. She knows we know she’s attractive. It’s just playing around to act like she’s not. Why else spend time in these pages discussing the effects of the Capri pants on viewers and staffers on The Dick Van Dyke Show? Why mention how women would tell her for years after that their husbands had crushes on her? If I had world-class good looks, I guess I’d try to downplay their effect on my career in my autobiography, too.
That same brand name recognizability was relevant to the relationship that led to her third marriage, to Dr. Robert Levine. He was the New York City physician who was helping Mary’s mom when she ran a high fever on the way back from a family trip to Europe. Dr. Robert told Mary that there were plenty of fans of hers in his practice. She asked if he was one and he told her no, but that “[he thinks he] saw her on the Dick Van Dyke Show when [he] was a kid” (p. 251). She laments that he will always see her as just “an older woman” and not the celebrity that she is. This is too bad for her, because he seems to have plenty of other things going for him that she likes. Notably, he’s not short. She concluded an earlier chapter on a romantic day with Dick Cavett by claiming that she is a “height bigot” (p. 244) and needs a tall man. Let’s pause here.
The title of this blog is no mere pun. I am tall—six feet, six inches (if I stand up straight)—and my name is Rob. I am also a doctor, but not the medical kind. The fact that my childhood crush married someone named Dr. Robert (not from The BEATLES song) and that he is not diminutive is proof to me that I am basically married to Mary. Want more proof? Remember that her on-screen husband’s name on the Dick Van Dyke Show was Rob. (The best part of that show is any time that she moans “Oh, Rob!” and / or invites him to kiss her by using his name; they wrote the show for me.) Through this tortured parasocial relationship we had, I think it’s pretty clear that I manifested her marriage to Dr. Levine, a man who is younger, taller, and more highly educated than she is. And, we share a name. I rest my case.
In all seriousness, Mary does have plenty of interesting stories and insights to share in her autobiography, so let’s conclude with a helpful one. During this third marriage, she talks with her husband (i.e., me) about her difficulty with achieving and maintaining sobriety. She has some misgivings about even sharing the news of this struggle with him. He explains that she has sought professional help for a physical problem before, so there should be no difference with seeking professional help for her alcohol addiction, mental health, or emotional health. That’s as ringing of an endorsement for seeking therapy as I can imagine. It’s rare that someone hides the fact that they lift weights or do cardio, so there should not be any problem with openly discussing therapy or medication for mental health concerns either. If it’s good enough for Mary Tyler Moore, it’s good enough for you, too. You might just make it after all.
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