A novel syndrome

If I am reading a novel by a male author and that novel is in some way delightful (which, for me, typically means the writer evidences both sprightly wit and a wealth of knowledge about one thing or many things of which I am ignorant), I will be moved to interrupt my reading to look at the back flap. If this author is somewhere along the spectrum of passably to extraordinarily handsome, I will instantly fall in love with him. If then the "About the Author" blurb contains mention of this author's wife, the following will occur:

1. I will feel immediately deflated, as though, since this stranger is already romantically entangled, happiness will never be mine. [It makes no difference if the author is 15 years younger than me and lives in, say, Maine. The fact that I am too old for him and there is essentially zero likelihood that we will ever meet in no way alters my certainty that we would be perfect for each other.]

2. I feel a swift blaze of jealousy directed at this wife. This is increased if the author is indeed 15 years younger than me because his wife is likely to also be a youngster. And really why should this wife have been a child bride when I continue to languish in spinsterhood? This wife calls herself a woman? What knows she of life?

3. I wallow in general malaise because no handsome brilliant novelist has ever married me. Even though one should. Obviously.

I do not experience this in relation to movie stars.