7 Reasons why Women Cheat

 

 

An exclusive committment to another person is difficult.  Studies show that most women will be unfaithful at least once, most likely within the first 3 years of their relationship.  Some of these indiscretions will lead to irreparable damage and permanent separation.  I recently met with a group of women who discussed possible reasons for unfaithfulness and came up with the following list.

Women cheat because:

1.   * X just doesn’t do it like they used to do it.

2.  *X doesn’t understand the picture we show of how we want it.

3.  *X used to make us feel beautiful, but suddenly forgot how.

4.  *X doesn’t listen anymore.

5.  We get bored and need a change

6.   We get tired of waiting longer and longer for a little attention.

7.  The cost of being faithful keeps going up and we are not willing to pay the price anymore.

 

Admittedly, all of us have cheated and tried to get satisfaction from another and we know how it feels when you accidentally run into your X.  You pretend not to see them or feign a weak smile, struggling to ignore the clinching in your stomach.  Such an encounter causes some of us to remember that our X was really pretty great.  The pics you’ve saved on your smart phone prove it.  You realize that your current relationship, which started out with a bang is now getting tired and shapeless.  The same issues you had with your X keep cropping up in your current relationship (and maybe even some new ones).  Perhaps you were really better off with your X.  You remember how good you had it before you cheated.   If you had it to do all over again, you probably wouldn’t have strayed.  You wonder if your X will take you back.

You muster up all your courage and make the call.  You eat a little piece of humble pie as you ask the receptionist to make an appointment with your X for color and a hair-cut on Wednesday at 1:00.
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(* X refers to former hairdresser-just in case I need to clarify)

An open letter to my Grandson

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Dear Cole,

You are one of the great gifts of my life, the gift that made me a grand person.  It will be many years before you know what that means because it is a secret reserved for grandparents alone.  You may gather clues along the way that may help you imagine what it is like to love someone as much as your grandfather and I love you, and I will try to describe it now, on this, your tenth birthday.

When you were born and I first held you, I immediately realized that you were the one.  The one that would fill a place in my arms and heart that had been specifically designed and reserved for you. You have filled that place with joy ever since.  You captured me with your laugh and your smile,  a smile that I’ve watched through many changes.  I loved your baby smile that was all gum and then you got your tiny teeth.  In a little while those baby teeth came loose and you put each one under your pillow and flashed a jack-o-lantern type grin.  Now your face beams with metal covered teeth and multi-color bands, but no matter what’s going on with your teeth, your smile is the one that makes me know that all is well with the world.

When I hear your voice call my name and see you running up to give me a hug, I could explode with happiness.  I love everything about you, just because you are you.   I can see evidence of the man you are growing up to be and I can see God at work in you.  He has given you good qualities and abilities, friends and family, challenges and opportunities.

You love athletics and you play hard and well.  You want to win but seem to know that winning is not everything and that you can learn valuable lessons from losing.  When your performance disappoints you, you sometimes show it, but you know how to shake it off.  You enjoy playing with others but are happy to be alone.  I love the worlds you make with your imagination.  You allow others, like me, into your wonderful world of legos and superheros.  You share your magical creations and you let me help.  You are patient with me.  We share stories and movies, games and music.  I think that you really like music.  Music seems to move effortlessly through your veins because the way you sing and dance is uniquely your own, reflecting your easy, soulful, carefree, elegant style.

You notice the people around you and you care about them.  You are kind.  You love your sister and are respectful to your parents.  You have friends.  When you argue with your sister or your friends you stick up for your beliefs.  Sometimes you get angry but you are quick to say you are sorry.  You forgive and move on.  You do not hold a grudge.  You are generous and you are grateful.

You are so smart.  You have the gift of a dyslexic mind.  You will continue to discover the brilliance of that mind.  It took some special teachers and a lot of hard work on your part to learn to read, but wow, once you did, you can not put your books away.  I don’t know of too many kids who read all 7 Harry Potter books before they were ten years old.  I think you appreciate reading much more than most kids your age.  My own theory is that the Dyslexic mind is so brilliant the rest of us couldn’t understand all that’s in it all at once, so it’s kind of locked up.  It is a puzzle that will frustrate, entertain and amaze you all your life as you keep discovering what you have to offer the world.  I am so very, very proud of you.

At grandparents day you asked me the question:  “What advice do you want to give me?”  I had to answer quickly.

Now that I’ve had time to think about it, my answer remains the same,  Always believe that you are as wonderful as your Pepper and Nee Nee think you are.

Happy birthday, Cole.

A view of Paris

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It was a curious mix of history and art that summer; a harmonious  blend of tranquil neutrals dabbed with vibrant color bleeding subtly into the more aggressive, impatient stokes and angles of stone and stucco.  They arrived  at their apartment in Paris by way of rolling rural farmlands after visiting the beaches of Normandy.
From their balcony they could see the Eiffel  tower pointing towards the heavens and rising above the ordered rows of terraced rooftops.  That is how they spent their apartment time,  looking out.  For, inside, the furniture was sparse and cheap and they had long ago outgrown sparse and cheap.  “I  chose the room for the view,” he said.
If there had been long strands of beads hanging from the doorway to a mattress filled with water, or a dresser filled with jeans and halter tops, she would be certain that she had lived there before.  “Just like some of my friends who spent a college-summer abroad,” she said.
 “Bohemian,” He said.
She liked the city and the sound of cars breaking and accelerating, accentuating the race toward the future.  She was attune to multiple dialects  blessing or insulting receptive ears.  From her window,  fabulous foreign faces worthy of Renoir, impressed themselves upon her.  She thought she saw a familiar one, a high school friend.  But she quickly dismissed the likelihood of him being here, now, and completely unchanged in 40  years.   The strong aromas of bread baking, laundry soap and garbage alternately wafted in with the breeze and dissipated once identified.
Outside they walked for miles on sidewalks crammed with people, shops, cafes, and museums. They saw old masters hanging in gilded frames mingling with tatted, pierced, spiked, youngsters.  They listened as a girl in tight jean shorts played Vivaldi on her violin.  A car playing rap music passed by.  They ate fresh crepes and drank old wine. They bought a gift for their grandson who would be born at the time of her mother’s 90th birthday.  She felt energy flowing through her as if she were plugged in to a source of vigor that heightened her sensitivities and reversed the advancement of the last few decades.
Perhaps it was because they had come from the battlefields of world war II, frozen in time.   Normandy, a beautiful, tranquil place and stage for a terrible war which birthed the acts of valor to which the French pay homage.  She thought of the thousands who gave their lives to preserve the only way of life she had ever known.  WWII was her father’s war and he had come home.  He lived to be 70.  And though he was not buried then and there with the thousands in that memorial cemetery, to her he was just as gone .
Her husband’s war was very different.  It became a dark chapter in history and left a rancid taste in the mouths of the American youth in the 1960’s and 70’s.  Drafts and protests, unclear message and mission, dead soldiers and heroes, none the less.  Her husband talked some about that time. He had flown in a plane of the same model as one they saw in a Normandy museum.  They spoke of returning to Southeast Asia some day.  She wondered if the future held that possibility.  She wondered who he was in high-school, before Vietnam, before they met.
Her father used to say,  “you can’t put an old head on young shoulders.”  But he was wrong. He should have known what young people don’t, that youth is indeed a state of mind;  old – the full  richness of experience, reflection, knowledge, connection, and life – a story captured with pen, paint and voice punctuated with spilt blood and drunken wine.
In Paris the past presses urgently against the future as if all answers lie somewhere in between.  In this space she rested her wise old head, no longer grey, against the strong shoulders of her husband’s 18 year old self. She grabbed his hand.