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Mitzi with fiance Jack Bean. "Jack and I are confident we can take the bitter with the better," says MitzL
by Mitzi Gaynor
MARRIAGE
MEANS TO ME
WHEN I think of my coming marriage I get very excited about it. I know it's going to be just wonderful — all brand new and completeness. I want it — and yet I can't help wondering about making this allimportant step.
Maybe it's because of all the things I've heard and read. What will I do if this happens? What do I do if that doesn't happen? How serious will the trial and tribulations be? Is the first year the hardest? Then, too, a lot of my friends have warned me that the minute theatrical people get married, the bets start. Ten minutes after the ceremony, the bets are five to one on the marriage lasting six months. If you've had a spat and are slightly formal at an opening, everybody speculates on the community property set-up.
I know that there must be strength and understanding and a solid foundation before marriage so that the marriage cannot be shaken by outside elements.
I always think of Jeanne Crain and Paul Brinkman as the ideal answer to gossip. I've never seen them unhappy. There is a complete divorcement between career and marriage. Theirs is a working thing with all the gear shined up and functioning with three-in-one oil.
With them as an example, I've bolstered myself sufficiently to realize that marriage is up to the two individuals. And my individual man is everything I ever wanted in a man. Of course, I really didn't know what I wanted until I met Jack, but I guess that is the way with women.
It was a February evening of last year that my date rounded up an extra man for my cousin for a Cocoanut Grove opening. Everything was fine until eight when my cousin called to say she was too ill to go out, and I was left with the dubious honor of two escorts. Jack Bean leaned on the buzzer at eight-ten and after explanations sat down and was quietly charming. At the Grove, we were left alone for a while; after a lot of laughs and a few dances, I realized I hadn't stopped enjoying myself since the start of the evening. I hadn't had to use any funny bits, or be ultra sophisticated, or even say "twenty-three skidoo." I didn't even know I was having a good time until mother broke up our threesome over scrambled eggs and coffee in my kitchen at 5:15 a.m.!
So two days later I had a terrific and hasty opening night — an emergency appendectomy, (continued on pace 67'
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