One is Not Enough: Why Men Cheat

With all the drama surrounding politicians and celebrities who cheat, one might gain the impression that cheating is pretty pervasive. And it is. Psychologists estimate that more than 40 percent of all married relationships have at least one partner sneaking out on the other. That number jumps to over 50 percent for non-married committed relationships.

Don’t misinterpret this as a judgment call. I honestly couldn’t care less if Bill Clinton came on Monica Lewinsky’s blue dress, if Anthony Weiner sexted sexually explicit photos to young women, and whether or not Tiger Woods needs more than a Swedish blond to keep him satisfied. To each his own.

But I do wonder a little about something…and that is, why seemingly perfectly decent men in seemingly perfectly happy relationships cheat on their wives and girlfriends. Not that women don’t cheat, too. They do. Some estimate that as many women are cheating as men. And it may be true.

This may draw some flak from female readers, but I actually can understand, if not necessarily condone, a man who cheats on a partner because she’s no longer having sex with him or the relationship has staled to the point that neither party takes much genuine interest in the other any longer. The right thing to do would be to get a divorce or break up, but statistics also show that men are pretty complacent. Under a third of divorces are initiated by them. Much easier to cheat. You don’t have to pay alimony or child support or risk not having a warm body to come home to at night.

What baffles me, however, is how so many men married to or in long-term partnerships with beautiful, charming, and generous women who intellectually, emotionally, and sexually thrill them still feel compelled to step out. As a rule, a woman will be utterly devoted to a man who satisfies her on all these levels…so incredibly rare is the find.

A friend of mine whose long-term partner cheated on her repeatedly, says, “Once a man discovers that more than one woman finds him attractive, it becomes like a drug. He just wants more and more.” Even, ladies, if it might cost him the fantastic woman waiting at home in his bed. (Because remember a lot of women, unlike most men, will leave a dead-end or troublesome relationship…or a man who cheats on them. Women aren’t as inclined to “settle” as their male counterparts.)

So what’s up with the male compulsion to constantly scope for greener or just different pastures?

Some anthropologists will argue it’s basic biology, that humans aren’t actually wired to be monogamous. Some psychologists will call it sexual addiction. I’d like to call it something far simpler, however: an easy ego boost.

Who doesn’t like to be admired by the opposite sex? I won’t lie. I like the fact that perfect strangers will open doors for me, lift my luggage into overhead compartments on airplanes, or give me free drinks just because they think, in that particular moment, I look pretty hot. It reminds me I’ve still got it and, to be quite honest, gives me greater confidence with the man on whom I have exclusively placed my affections if I’m in a relationship.

But I can’t say as I have a compelling desire to jump the bones of the mixologist who gives me a complimentary glass of his latest concoction or the random guy in tango class who offers to give me a private lesson in the figure 8. I smile, soak up the ego boost, and go home.

A fair number of men, however, push the envelope on female attention and go as far as the attending party will allow if they feel they have a good chance of getting away with it. (Though admittedly, the “getting away with it” concern often doesn’t enter their heads till after the deed is done anyway.)

But the sad truth is just about every man with whom I’ve been in a semi-serious to serious relationship, save my ex-husband (so far as I know anyway), has cheated on me in some form or another, whether emotionally or physically. And I’d say more than half of my female friends and acquaintances and their female friends and acquaintances have had similar experiences. And I know some of these women are far from duds in the bedroom, on the dance floor, or at a cocktail party. They shimmer with life, and intelligence, and confident sexuality. Yet…the men in their lives still cheat….

A friend of mine explains it this way: “Men go through this thing where they need to feel validated by other women even if they don’t care about those women.”

She has a point. And I, like a lot of women, have been both the “cared about” woman whose romantic partner is off “validating” himself as well as the one doing the validating for the man.

Neither position is one any woman wants to be in, trust me. Because a man who is feeling a need to sow his wild oats is not a man who has your emotions in his line of sight. It’s not that he wants to hurt you. He just doesn’t consider the implications of his actions on people with feelings—i.e. the women who have made the mistake of caring for him.

Unfortunately, all too many men have competing desires of wishing for the stability and security of a long-term relationship while also wanting the excitement of painting the town red every weekend…with a different woman each night. Too often they try to have both…at the same time.

Of course, I realize nothing here so far is providing you any insight on how to prevent that man in your life from cheating. The reality is, I’m afraid, you can’t prevent it if it’s something he is prone to do or is in a place in his life where he feels compelled to do it. It just isn’t in the average guy’s mental makeup to consider long-term, widespread implications of actions outside the boardroom. They are compartmentalizers. They really do believe they can do A without affecting B.

It’s the old “have your cake and eat it, too” scenario. Of course, we all know how that usually works out. And the guy who is running around validating himself will learn how it works out, too, but usually only after he’s lost everything he didn’t realize he valued.

Am I the Only One Who Can Pick Up Socks Around Here? And Why I Fold Laundry in Front of My Husband

I’m not the world’s best housekeeper. As you can imagine, living in a small house makes it even more of a challenge. When you need to put things away, where do you put them exactly? Under the bed? Squeezed between some furniture? How about one of those nifty pretty storages boxes? Wait. Where will you put the pretty box holding your stuff?

It doesn’t help that my husband is as much of a slob as I am. He’d rather be reading than doing anything else, so he reads in his free time, rather than pick up his socks from the bathroom floor.

Would I rather be reading or cleaning? I’d rather be reading. Better yet, I’d rather be writing my novels. It’s much easier to live in my fantasy world than to open the door to either one of my daughter’s bedrooms and carry on as if the piles of clothes and books don’t really matter. It shouldn’t bother me, I tell myself, the rest of the house is pretty untidy, too. But at least I can walk across the floors in the rest of the house. (A good thing, don’t you think?) Not so in my daughters’ rooms.

Sometimes I do try to pick up and keep things clean—but I’m not sure anybody really notices what I do—unless I perform the task in front of them.

For example, the other day my husband was surprised that I laundered a load of towels. “Do you think the clean towels just fill the hallway closet on their own?” I asked. So I try to do my housework in front of everybody when I can, with as much moaning and sighing as I can muster. “Look at me, I’m folding the laundry!”

But seriously, this was not an issue in our lives until I decided to stay at home with our children and freelance. Before children, my husband and I lived in the D.C. area, and I worked outside of the house as an editor. We divided chores much more equitably—when we actually did the household chores. We didn’t keep up easily because we were too busy bookstore hopping, going to concerts and readings, and eating out to worry about a clean house. Ahhhh, those were the days.

It’s really been a struggle for me to justify not doing the housework every day when I’m home all day long. But it’s not as if I’m eating bon-bons and watching TV. I’m actually writing books. And blogs. And proposals. And so on.

But the sad truth is most people have some sort of lala-land image about what I do, as if writing isn’t working, as if writing is nothing but joy and happiness and money coming in by the droves. And yes, even my own husband of almost 23 years has a hard time with this concept. From his point of view, if I’m not making money, it’s not a job. He has a point.

I am making money with my writing, even though it’s not enough that if I were alone on this planet without a spouse, I could earn a living by penning my novels. No way. Maybe I could do it with freelancing, but then I’d have to give up writing books because freelancing deadlines are tighter and must be met if you want to keep working. The kind of a novel you could squeeze in between the deadlines of another kind of writing might not be a very good novel. Or even a very good idea of a novel. Novels take long tracks of uninterrupted time.

Okay. Seems I’ve gotten sidetracked, away from my original subject, which was housekeeping. You see how easy that is for me—to just forget about it?

Right this minute I’m thinking “Just step away from the keyboard and put a load of towels in the washer.” But the very next minute my thoughts progress to the next sentence on my computer screen and how I’m going to finish this blog post in time for my deadline. Next, of course, I think about my next book and that’s where my thoughts always lead me—which is a good thing because that due date is looming, too.

In the meantime, I’m not sure how important a clean house is to the happiness of my family. And thank goodness for that. I’d much rather spend quality time with them than nag at them to clean or to be cleaning the house myself. While trying to keep the house passable, at least, I try to keep the bigger picture in mind. In the words of the wise-cracking Phyllis Diller, “Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the sidewalk before it stops snowing.”

The Truth About Lying

A friend prompted me to write this post. A few days ago when he was asking for my insight on why his girlfriend was acting the way she was and wondering if all his distress was really just stemming from his own baggage, he said, “By the way, can you write a blog post about lying?”

“Well, heck yeah,” I responded.

I can’t imagine there are too many people who know as much about lying as I do. Not because I’m into lying myself. I’ve never been very good at it. I think perhaps that’s why my women friends don’t take me shopping very much because when they’re standing in front of a three-way mirror, asking, “Does this dress make my rear-end look like a stagecoach?”….well, I’m gonna tell the truth.

I know a lot about lying because I’ve been lied to a lot…mostly by men. So it was a strange thing to have a male friend ask me to talk about lying in relationships. I kind of thought lying was the territory of men. I have an encyclopedia full of stories about men who lie, men I’ve loved and trusted and men my women friends have loved and trusted, too. Like the guy who told his wife he was going to be home late because he’d be out cutting hay till dark. What he failed to mention was that after he’d cut the hay he’d be rolling in it, too…with a woman not his wife.

But lying isn’t just the purview of men. Everybody’s doing it. So much so that when my aforementioned friend and I were competing on an emotional baggage weigh-in, lies told by exes was the dead weight taking both our scales to the ground.

So what’s up with all the lying, and why do people do it, particularly in romantic relationships?

I’m probably not the best person to answer that question given that I’m actually notorious for brutal honesty. (If this blog isn’t a testament to that, I don’t know what is.) I have frequently and injudiciously told the truth far too many times, and I’ll often take the measure of a date based on whether or not he can handle it. It might shock you to know that many a man will freak when you honestly tell him he’s handsome. Maybe this sets up expectations for routine shaving of the five o’clock shadow or regular changing of the underwear. I don’t know….

But what I do know about lying is this: it’s usually committed by people who are reluctant to live in reality. No surprise there, huh?

So when my friend told me he felt “emotionally compromised” by all the baggage he carried from women lying to him, I had to make a correction. The people who are emotionally compromised are the ones telling the tall tales. They are incapable of dealing with reality, so they lie in an effort to avoid it and create “realities” they can cope with.

Allow me to give an example….

Once upon a time, I knew a man so polished in the art of deception that he had almost convinced himself the person he was pretending to be was, in fact, real. He was that good. He could lie to himself and believe the lie. Hence, when he lied to his family and friends, he was highly convincing. No liar is better than the liar who can convince himself. The man was so unhappy in his reality that he created an alternate universe where he was a kind and attentive romantic partner, a brave and committed man, a considerate and passionate lover. And that is the universe he escaped to when reality was too much for him.

The result?

His disconnection from himself and his true reality was so great that one day when his wife was sitting across the table from his ex-lover in a restaurant, holding her hand while the two cried together, he texted his spouse, completely disconnected from what was really happening, “Honey, when you’re on your way home, can you pick up cat litter?”

Little did he know reality was about to hit him hard and square in the face…along with the cat litter delivery.

Hence my sometimes frightening dedication to truth. Truth can hurt. Truth can piss you off, as Scott Peck says. But truth is freeing. It allows you to live in a world where people love you for who you really are, not for some absurd façade you create.

And if you find yourself in the company of someone who can’t cope with truth, beware. These are the types who “need a break,” when caught in a lie, want “baggage-free” relationships, and who ignore your communications for three days after you’ve made some reality-inducing gesture.

Watch out for these Mr. or Mrs. Containment types. They’re the ones struggling with both hands to plug up all the holes where they feel like shit is coming out…or might come out. If they can’t deal with your baggage, chances are damn good they can’t deal with their own either. And trust me, the last thing you want in your life, no matter how gorgeous she is or how charmingly he behaves, is someone who lacks coping skills. Because they’re usually the first ones to lie…in a desperate effort to save themselves, not you, when they think the ship is sinking.

Watching for the Proverbial Red Flags and What I’ve Learned from Dating Crazy Men

“The first time someone shows you who they are, believe them.” –Maya Angelou

It would be a mild statement to say I’ve been burned in relationships. The fact that one of my girlfriends suggested the other evening that she ought to head up a committee for screening my dates is testament to this fact. Over the course of my two decades of adulthood, I’ve dated, lived with, or been married to men suffering from chronic depression, borderline personality disorder, compulsive lying tendencies, and codependency.

Someone once asked me, “Do you attract crazy men, or do they become crazy after being with you?” Actually, it was one of the men I dated who asked me. (He later turned out to be codependent and a liar.)

I was not offended. It is a question I have often asked myself.

You would think a writer trained in English literature, historical research, and psychological maneuvering would be better at choosing partners. I know how to tell if a subject I’m interviewing is lying. I know how to discern from body language and eye contact if someone is nervous, afraid, or stressed. So why is it I have missed critical red flags in my relationships with men?

Well, I haven’t exactly missed them. Let’s just say I’ve offered one too many second chances. Like who gives a guy who gets up and leaves after he’s “satisfied,” even when you’re not, a chance at another meeting? Who gets in a relationship with the same man twice expecting things to be different on round two? And who lets a man who has proved himself a coward back into her life on a promise of brave commitment?

Um, yeah, me. Guilty as charged. Crazy shit doesn’t just happen in the movies. My life is proof.

And yes, I’ve read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. Maybe I need to read it again.

I believe it was Oprah Winfrey who said you will have to keep repeating the same life lesson over and over again until you learn it. I hope I’m ready to learn it this time—learn that the day a man (or anyone for that matter) shows me who he is to believe him and run like hell while I still can if I’m not immediately impressed by the showing.

I can still hear myself saying to the man I believed to be the love of my life, “You are a selfish coward” well into a doomed relationship I had resolved to end. A few months after the ending, I had taken him back on a promise of courage even though I had apparently already decided courage was not in his skill set.

Can someone please bring the cast iron skillet into the room and hit me over the head with it?

Yes, I’m into self-abuse these days. But the reality is I’m real, for better or worse, and forgiveness is part of who I am. I don’t like to expend a lot of energy holding grudges, particularly not against people I love. If you want me to really, really loathe you, it’s going to take some work…. And yes, there have been a couple of people who have accomplished it, but I wouldn’t recommend joining their club. (I do exercise the power of the pen, you know, combined with ample access to the public forum. I’m just sayin’.)

In the meantime, I’m trying not to scare off potential romantic interests by seeing red flags where there are none. A guy said to me recently, “I noticed you’re a little sensitive” after I asked him for the seventh time or so if he was okay when I perceived a distant attitude as a sign of disinterest instead of what it really was—seasickness and a concentrated attempt not to vomit in a rocking boat.

There is definitely a delicate balance to walk between listening to your gut and following your heart. Hearts are prone to flutters of fancy even when your large intestine is telling you that butterfly looks more like a moth ready to dive into a flame.

Sometimes the answer to whether or not this or that guy is “the one” is as simple as listening to what he says on those first few dates and not glossing over obvious signs of trouble just because you think he’s the handsomest thing you’ve seen since Antonio Banderos in an Iberostar commercial.

Realize if he lies about his age on date one, he’s probably going to lie about far worse things later. Don’t forgive him. Bail before you’re sucked in.

But if he’s sheepishly honest about how anxious he is dating a woman who writes a blog about relationships yet he’s still sitting there across the table smiling with faith that he’s decent enough not to end up the subject of some brutal poking fun later, he might just be courageous enough to warrant date number two and then some.

9 Rules of Dating for Clueless Men

It occurred to me after returning to the dating circuit about eight months following my separation from my ex-husband that dating in one’s 30’s is a good deal different from dating in one’s 20’s. However, some things never change. Men remain, to a large degree, clueless about how to genuinely impress a female…or, at the very least, get her to want to ever go out with them again after date number one.

So I decided it was time to give the guys a “fly on the wall” view of the unspoken rules women carry around in their heads on those first few dates. Please note, however, these rules apply only to high quality females (i.e. not the type who smokes three packs a day and sports a tattoo across her chest that reads “Only God Can Judge Me”).

1) Pay for dinner. It befuddles me that I even have to note this rule, but you’d be surprised how many guys don’t get it. I don’t care if you’re dating an executive powerhouse of a female, pay for dinner on the first date. Now, in the interest of politeness, she might offer to half the bill, but trust me, 99 percent of women expect you to decline the offer and pay for that first date meal. If you don’t, you will look like a clueless schmuck, and, I assure you, she will never return your phone calls or texts. (If you want to make the argument, as I’ve heard some guys do, that you can’t afford to pay for the meals of the 20 women you’re taking out a week, then be more selective, or be a jerk, and don’t pay for the meals of the women you never want to see again—but before you do that, make sure you don’t want to date any of her friends or acquaintances ever. She will tell everyone she knows how clueless you are.)

2) Open doors. Another “I can’t believe I have to tell you this” rule, but there are men who fail on this one, too. Opening the door for women and elderly folks is just plain courteous, and it shows you have at least some breeding.

3) Please wear a clean shirt. You will be judged by how you look, and I don’t mean you have to be drop-dead gorgeous to get a gal’s attention. But make it look as if you put some effort into getting ready for this gig. The three-piece suit isn’t required, but crisp, clean clothes and well-groomed hair and nails are. Show up with that lunch spaghetti stain on your shirt, and you’ll be lucky if you make it out the front door with her…if you do, she is incredibly generous and polite. Nothing says “I’m a sloth and I don’t care about you” more than rumpled, stained, or uber casual attire.

4) Talk about something or someone besides yourself. There is no bigger turn-off than a guy who can’t shut up about how awesome he is or who dominates the conversation. No. 1—it communicates you’re insecure. Confident people don’t feel the need to talk incessantly about themselves and their accomplishments. No. 2—you will bore her to tears. You may find your job enormously interesting, but chances are, she doesn’t. Plus, who the hell wants to talk about work on a date? Not me. I get enough of that in my own office….

5) Don’t ask if you can do your laundry at her house. This is not college, guys. Fix your washing machine, or buy a new one. And if this is some lame excuse to stay over, trust me, you can come up with something better.

6) If you’re interested, let her know. Suck up some courage, and ask if you can call her or go out again. I know your ego is fragile, but if she turns you down, what exactly do you have to lose? That’s right. Nothing. So take a risk, and let her know you’d like to see her again. There are a few women who will pursue you, but most figure any guy worth having is one brave enough to walk a little ways out on a limb for them.

7) Please learn how to kiss. It is beyond shocking how many men do not know how even after a decade and a half of marriage and five years of dating. Trust me, bad kissing is a deal breaker. Call us ladies shallow, but it’s true. No one feels like being deep throated by your megaloglossia on a first date. Chill on the probing tongue action, and learn to kiss like Romeo. You can salvage a lackluster date with an incredible kiss for reasons I probably don’t need to go into….

8) Do not make a move for sex on the first date, the second date, or the third…. Unless you are going out with the aforementioned lady with the tattoo across her breastbone. No. 1—it makes you look like a prick who is only interested in one thing. And while that may be the case, be aware that it’s not likely to win you any bonus points with your date who much prefers the idea that you are charmed by her sparkling personality. No. 2—first time coitus is almost always mediocre at best. Let’s face it—she’s a new partner, and you have no idea what drives her wild. Do you really want her first impression to be that you are, at best, a mediocre lover? She will forgive mediocrity later if she’s in love with your character. And she might even teach you a thing or two….
9) Before you ask that attractive, smart, and successful woman out, make sure you like arm candy with a brain. Sadly, far too many men, even incredibly intelligent and powerful ones, have trouble with women who can hold their own in talking stocks at a cocktail party even while being the hottest number in the room. If you can’t get over yourself and realize you must be pretty awesome to attract such a female, don’t even bother wasting her time. On the other hand, you might keep in mind that every guy in the room is not only going to be jealous but perhaps even wondering how you landed such a prize. Of course, I don’t have to tell you what conclusion they’ll draw about you….and your…ahem, abilities.

“Where’s My Yurt?”: The Failure of the Home Office

“What a circus act we women perform every day of our lives. Look at us. We run a tightrope daily, balancing a pile of books on the head. Baby-carriage, parasol, kitchen chair, still under control. Steady now! This is not the life of simplicity but the life of multiplicity that the wise men warn us of. It leads not to unification but to fragmentation. It does not bring us grace; it destroys the soul.”—Ann Morrow Lindbergh

A simpler way of putting this would be “Honey, I love you, but get the eff out of my space. You’re destroying my soul.”

Okay, maybe that’s just my interpretation.

When I thought about my efforts, as a writer, to create a home office, a space for myself, I thought about that quote from Virginia Woolf. You know–the one about women writers needing a room of their own. How lovely. How romantic. But it simply didn’t work for me. It didn’t have the right flavor and feel for my more Erma Bombeck-ish life.

Unfortunately, I found no quotes from her about etching out space and time to write while mothering, taking care of her house, and so on. She was probably too busy living that reality to really think, let alone write about it.

Come to think of it, I don’t read much Erma Bombeck these days because if I want to read about dirty houses, piles of laundry, and the ups and downs of family life, well, this is my reality and I lost the fascination with my “exciting” domestic life years ago.

But I do keep Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s famous book Gift from the Sea close at hand. She inspired many women in her generation to follow their dreams and gave a voice to their emotions and struggles. She also struggled to maintain her own identity–both literary and personal–in the immense shadow of her husband, Charles.

She was a mother and a well-respected writer. Her “circus act,” of course, was probably helped by the fact that she was wealthy. She probably had nannies for her children, maybe a few maids.

Most women writers don’t have that option. And for most of us, writing is more than a trade—it is a compulsion and a passion. So when you don’t have the time to write because say your children are taking up most of it, it’s not only a professional but also a deep personal sacrifice.

My husband and I purchased our three-bedroom home 14 years ago. With one baby, 1,400-square feet seemed plenty. One bedroom for each of us and an extra room for an office. That lasted about a year—or until we knew another baby was on the way.

Then I moved my desk into the dining room, where it stayed for awhile. I remember slipping Emma in the baby bouncer and dashing off a quick column or article to my editor to the bounce-bounce-bounce rhythms of the contraption. I also remember trying out the playpen and a dog fence while I worked and Emma played. As wily then as she is now, she eventually escaped.

And she stopped napping when she was about 18 months old. So working during naptimes wasn’t much of an option for me either.

The next step in my quest for workspace was a groovy desk/armoire in the living room, where I could work and sort of watch over both girls playing. We could close the doors on my computer and papers so the girls wouldn’t mess with them, and we could have some semblance of a normal living space when people visited.

In the meantime, we had decided to turn our sun porch into an office for me, with a little space for my husband, who, after all, has a rather large office where he works. Renovating the sun porch was no easy task. Between our lack of time (toddlers) and dwindling funds (one-income household, basically, with an unsteady freelance income on my end), it became an issue of a physical, financial, and time balance in our household. I remember a vivid conversation with an editor while I was in the middle of painting the walls. Finally, there was heat, flooring, and even lovely pond-moss green walls.

But as we finished the room, I began to worry. My husband liked it too much and was becoming enamored by this private room of many windows, books, and music. There was a gleam in his eye as he looked over my space. Okay, I told myself, hey, he’s worked on this room, too, and he works at an office, so he won’t spend A LOT of time in here, right? This was just another one of those compromises in a long marriage full of them. I’ve had to fight softly to maintain my space to write and think.

Well, at this point, a few years later, the office is the room he spends the most time in on the weekends and in the evenings. He loves it and now has a huge rocking chair in the corner where he sits and listens to music on his headphones. Every time I step around that chair to get to my desk, I think one word: yurt. Yep. you read that right. I am now longing for a backyard yurt.

You see, it’s not just him, but also my daughters who have taken a shine to my office. Many times, we are all crammed in the office together—the smallest room in the house. And I am not writing. It’s such a nice space that the whole family gathers there. This is a problem. In my quest for space to work, I find it’s also a search for acceptance and acknowledgement that my writing matters in my own house, to my family, as well as to the outside world.

So I eek out my space. However I can. And I won’t give up.

Sometimes the guilt sets in, and I adjust my writing schedule and tell myself I don’t need to be working when my family is home. On the other hand, when I’m on deadline or have an important phone or Skype meeting or interview, I give them fair warning. The door will be closed.

Sometimes my balancing act veers to one side or the other. Sometimes I spend way too much time writing and lift my head and wonder what the hell is going on in my own house. Doesn’t anybody else know how to unload the dishwasher? Other times, I’m on top of the house and the family schedule, and my writing suffers. Did I really send that to my editor?

This summer my balancing act is working by getting up earlier than the rest of the family so that I can write in peace. It doesn’t always work out. Even as I write this at 5:38 am, my husband is in his rocking chair, reading, and he just let loose with a loud sneeze. “Bless you,” I say. But what I’m really thinking is “Yurt.”

“There Will Always Be Richard”…And How You Know It’s Time to Bestow Honorary Girlfriend Status on a Guy

I love my women friends. They are like my family except for the fact that they don’t make me want to climb the walls and hang from a chandelier when I’m around them. They are also my most trusted advisors, my personal cabinet. Whenever an important issue comes up, I go to them for perspective and guidance, whether the problem is my latest mommy meltdown or the most recent ‘what on earth possessed me to tell my S.O. THAT???’ crisis.

But what’s especially wonderful about these women, three of whom I place at the core of my advisory, is that I know them so well that sometimes I can consult the girlfriend trifecta without actually consulting the girlfriend trifecta.

The other day was a case in point. I was debating whether or not to accept the casual dinner invitation of a guy I had dated a handful of times, wondering if it might send my current romantic partner over the edge to imagine me eating creamy truffle risotto and a chocolate ganache tart in company with a man other than himself. It was not, mind you, that I had any latent romantic interest in this potential dinner partner. It’s just that a writer like myself occasionally likes to interact with someone who can carry on an intelligent conversation about Charles Dickens and William Faulkner, something I knew from experience this potential dinner partner could do.

As I am wont to do with any decision that could potentially screw up the rest of my life, I started to dial my deeply devoted friend of 38 years who has come to my rescue on more than one occasion, holding my hand when I gave birth to my daughter, hosting me for a Christmas Eve meltdown, and handing me her cell phone one day at O’Hare and telling me to just “please shut up and call the love of your life.” So tuned in is she sometimes to my psyche, she often knows what I want or need more accurately than I do.

But before I could finish dialing, I already knew what Sarah would say. She would advise me not to play with fire.  Because she is my mother hen and protector, the woman I can count on to make me feel safe in the most dire of circumstances.  When life becomes too much to bear, it is Sarah who invites me to her wonderfully chaotic house, where I am comforted by the frenetic activity of her chef husband, her energetic two-year-old son, and her teenage nephew who likes to advise me on all the benefits of owning a Droid over an iPhone.

Of course, I also knew Sarah would speak her trademark tagline after providing her advice: “I love you, and I support you no matter what.”

Hmm, no need to call. 

On to the next girlfriend. Shiloh.  Outspoken, adventurous, and irreverent, she is not too difficult to predict either.  I knew without even thinking about it too much that Shiloh would say, “Go for it!”  Ever open to the next adventure, experiment, or big thing, Shiloh has no qualms about risk-taking, even when there is no clear potential benefit. Her life has hardened her against getting wound up about consequences. Though she will admit herself at times, “There are days I consider shots and a round of tennis a viable option for problem solving.” 

Sooo….no need to call her either. I had both ends of the spectrum.

That only left Susannah—the practical psychology major whose husband has repeatedly accused her of having more divorced friends than anyone else he knows.  She is the one worth calling no matter what, at least so says Sarah, who admits, “You know what Shiloh is going to say.  You know what I’m going to say. Call Susannah. She is the only one left with a practical, rational outlook on things. And besides,” she adds, “then you have three different opinions, so likely whatever choice you make will be the ‘right’ one in someone’s view.”

I never called any of my three most trusted advisors that day. I ultimately came to my own decision not to mess with any men’s heads or to potentially play with fire all on my own.  Okay, well, not all on my own. I had the voices and perspectives of those three girlfriends heatedly debating in my head. 

This is the reason why a wise man not only works to win the heart of his lover but also the hearts of her girlfriends. They may be the ones who determine whether he gets ditched or forgiven one day down the road when he responds to a life crisis one too many times with “I love you. I’m eating Go Lean Crunch now. What are you doing?” Um, having a crisis in case you hadn’t noticed.

I know I can count on the women in my life to still be my friends no matter what crazy trouble I get into.  They have this otherworldly power to surround me with a net of kindness and support even when they aren’t actually there. There are occasions when I will call one of their number at 3 a.m. when I wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, but more often than not, my awareness that I can call if I need to is really all I require.  I know they’re there, and I will eventually go back to sleep, assured that no matter what happens, these women will be there when things get so bad I have to call.

Men do not always understand this sisterhood among women. Raised to be lone wolves who interact with their BFFs on a whole different level than we do (i.e. intimate friendship means you’re not afraid to get totally toasted in front of the guy and then go play a round of golf and score badly), they may find the close emotional ties the women in their lives share with other women confounding if not downright threatening.

Once when Shiloh and I were jointly in the throes of nasty break-up blues, we seriously discussed the feasibility of buying a farm, inviting other disillusioned women friends, and raising vegetables in company with our daughters and ditching men at least from our day-to-day lives forever. When Shiloh mentioned this idea to a date one night after an especially long “wine flight,” he was appalled and wanted to know if this really was her “five-year plan.” “Don’t you need a man around?” he asked.

His incredulity could only be matched by our own, I must say.  What man asks a woman he’s been dating less than two months what her five-year plan is?  And who discusses a five-day plan, much less a five-year plan, with a woman he is driving home because she has admitted she has imbibed too much wine to drive herself safely?  A man without much experience with women…that’s who.

And so the poor schmuck got what any more experienced gentleman would have known better than to bargain for.  Shiloh responded (and forgive my more formal language here; I’ve been banned from subscribers’ servers because of my occasional use of four-letter words), “There will always be more (ahem!) Richard; good girlfriends, however, are a lot harder to find.”  Richards, you see, come in all sizes and with various levels of proficiency attached to them. But a female friend who will stand by you through everything—if you find her, hang on tight.

I should know.  It’s taken me more than 30 years to assemble my core group of rock solid women friends.

This is not to dismiss the men with whom I am (as this blog attests) so endlessly fascinated. I love men. In fact, I think that is a good part of my trouble.  I grew up the only girl at the babysitter, and once in high school, I found the company of boys far more satisfying than that of silly, boy crazy girls.  Plus, it was my father, grandfather, and great uncles who made much of me when I was a child.  The women were always too busy for me.  All in all, I feel incredibly comfortable with men, far more than I do with women unless those women are confident, smart, and sassy gals whom I can admire and respect and who aren’t threatened by a loud and outspoken woman like myself.

But at the same time, I don’t always understand men (hence the fascination perhaps) anymore than they understand me. I love Mr. Go Lean Crunch with all my heart, and, in the end, it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t always know the right thing to say. That’s what my girlfriends are for.  What matters is that even in complete bewilderment (and sometimes terror), he has stood by me, rock solid as…well…a woman.  I am thinking perhaps we should bestow “honorary girlfriend” status on men like this.

They are more than Richards. In fact, if we want to get truly derogatory, and why the hell not?  They are not Richards at all.  They stand much taller and do not feel the need to flee when things get tough.  They know how to brace for the punch.  Where they learned to do this, I can only guess…probably from a woman.

There will indeed always be Richards. 

Foolish is the woman who risks the trust or gives up the friendship of a solid and committed friend, be that friend male or female, for a mere Richard.  As Elbert Hubbard says, “A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.” Banish such a friend from your life, and you may indeed be a Richard yourself.

Emotional Diarrhea: The Neediness of Men

It occurs to me I should not be blogging now.  It is 1 a.m. I am sick with bronchitis. I am exhausted. My daughter is sleeping in my bed. I have spent the past two hours mothering…but not to a child—to a man. A man who took nearly an hour to tell me what was wrong. It took him that long to run through all the various diversions he felt compelled to run through before finally being honest about the fact that he was suffering and needed me.

You women who read this will know what I am talking about—the way the men in our lives can emotionally exhaust us more than our children do.

Children are simple and direct: “Mommy, I am tired and hungry. Mommy, I miss Grandpa, and I am sad.”  Their wants and fears come out easily, then the tears, then the hugs and kisses and the soothing, and it is over.

Not so with men.

Over the course of their wayward socialization and upbringing, men’s emotional directness has been bred right out of them…unless it’s something they can solve with a fist fight. If they have to cope with an emotion that is not anger (or that can’t be translated into anger), they are lost.

We women pay the price.

That’s because we are not just their wives and lovers. We are their best friends and the stand-ins for the mothers whose skirts they once cried into as little boys. They do not have our network of emotional sustenance. We fill our emotional buckets with the kind and encouraging words of other women. It is a resource men lack. If they do not have an understanding wife or girlfriend, their emotional buckets stand empty.

I have said this often enough on this blog—that women are the one and only emotional stand-in for men in most cases. Even your husband’s best friend isn’t going to be capable of much more than a pat on the back, followed by, “Hey, how about we go for a ride?”

A male friend said to me recently, “For men, emotional sustenance is supposed to be provided by a beer and a football game.”

But when beer and sports don’t cut it, the lucky few with loving women in their lives will come limping and sheepish to our arms, beating around the bush for a couple of hours, but coming nonetheless—to women who, more often than not, have just finished a 10-hour day at the office, made a barely competent dinner for the family, bathed, soothed, and put to bed a couple of kids, and are now sitting blithely for the first time all day on the floor in a corner of the bedroom gleefully painting toenails red. Thrilled for the first moment of peace and absence of need in their lives.

But then the man intrudes like a roving brown bear.

The best among us will set aside the red toenail polish, summon our last ounce of understanding and tolerance, and listen. But sometimes we just cannot help it. We turn the look of death on the beaten down husband, fling the bottle of red nail polish at the quickly closing door, and peevishly deny him sex for a week.

It’s not that we are cruel, guys.  (And yes, I know you are reading this, slightly aghast.)  It’s that we are exhausted.  Women’s lives, whether because of biology or socialization, are loaded with caregiving—we tend to the emotional needs of our children, our friends, our lovers, our colleagues, even our pets, and we do it like it is second nature (because it is), but because we do it all day for days on end, we eventually run down, especially when the caregiving is sparingly returned.

One of my girlfriends told me recently she is actually grateful her husband has a few female friends. “It takes some of the heat off me,” she explains. “I get so bitchy when he’s needy.”

It’s not that we are angry at our husband’s or boyfriend’s failure to be an invincible knight in shining armor.  Most of us are realists, and we do not expect men to fight off their dragons all on their own. We don’t think men in emotional need are weak.  In fact, when we first fall in love, we find this sensitivity about them wonderfully endearing.

But sometimes, we do resent his deep emotional dependence on us, a dependence we do not share because we usually have female friends and relatives who tend to our emotional bucket filling long before the man in our life ever shows up with a water hose.  By day’s end, we have often already been hosed down, dried off, and are ready for that glass of wine and a book in front of the fire.

But instead, in walks this man who has no deep emotional connection to anyone but us, and we can see from the wild look in his eyes that he is needy. And, as one of my girlfriends put it recently, because men have so much pent up emotional baggage, their need often turns into what she terms “emotional diarrhea.”  She adds, “It’s like a contagion, and it can take over your life.”

Pretty soon your peaceful evening has turned into his dumping ground, as he recounts his screwed up day, awaits your verification that he is wonderful and his boss is just an idiot, and depends on you to restore his sense of manhood by sharing a rousing romp in the hay just to seal the deal that all is well.

Pretty soon it’s 2 a.m.

He is snoring peacefully, and you’re lying awake staring at the ceiling fan, wondering if any of your girlfriends are awake doing the same thing.

For the men who are reading this and wondering if they have deeply erred in sharing that most vulnerable part of themselves with their wives and lovers, let me provide some assurance: if the women in your life have to come your aid (no matter if they are staring at the ceiling wide awake at 2 a.m. afterwards), they adore you. Even if you’ve gotten a door slammed behind you with a bottle of red nail polish thrown against it a few times, still…rest assured…they love you.

If you can give a little back in return, then give it.  Even if it as clumsy as a bouquet of flowers, still, give it.  The acknowledgement will not go unnoticed.  The women in your life do not need you so much as you think (sorry to disappoint, gentlemen).  As a dear friend of mine puts it, women have other resources at the ready for their emotional sustenance: “Women are like the inflatable insulation that is blown into the wall and attic spaces of old houses — they simply know where the gaps exist and fill them, intrinsically. The men are not capable… It’s when we expect them to be that things go south.”

It is so true. Occasionally, however, give the unexpected.  Fill a gap here and there, and watch that woman who has thrown a few too many bottles of nail polish and…ahem…other things at you morph into something a good deal softer and a good deal more ready to be there for you when life runs, as it will, counter to your expectations.

The Female Brain Run Amuck: A Cheese and Bread Plate Analysis

The three ladies who mentally dissected a cheese plate

I have to confess I’ve not received too many extravagant gifts from men. While I know there are women out there who would appear to belong to “the ring a month club” courtesy of their boyfriends and husbands, that has never been me.  The best I’ve gotten from a guy short of an engagement ring is a pair of cross-country skis.  (And let me tell you, that was thrilling enough.)

So I have to admit from the outset I don’t exactly come at the whole “guy showers girl with extravagant gifts” thing with a very clear perspective on the issue.  Which is no doubt why my current boyfriend has thrown me a bit off kilter…and many of my girlfriends, too, who (like me) have never really experienced much in the wine, roses, and diamonds department.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’d much rather have a kayak or a hiking trip to Peru than a diamond any day, but I’ve not gotten anything along those lines either.  However, I digress….

My new beau is a whole different animal from what I’m used to.  Not only does he have something on the verge of a conniption fit if I try to lift a 40-pound bag of dog chow out of the trunk of my car, but he insists on stopping along the side of the road to adjust the headlights on my car when I complain about them not performing well enough in the fog.  (And yes, he has the tools for things of this nature magically handy at all times.)  He also pulls out my chair at dinner (even when it’s at my own house) and refuses to allow me to stand up to refill my own wine glass.  He is a model of chivalry, and I still can’t quite get used to it.  The attention verges on decadence to my way of thinking.

But one of my well-heeled girlfriends begs to disagree.  She does not find it in the least disturbing that he also buys me shoes, scarves, jewelry, new tires for my car, and anything else he can think of to bring a twinge of a smile to my face.  In fact, she said to me only yesterday, “This is how a man is supposed to treat a woman, Debbie.  He is wooing you.”

If that’s true, what have all the other men in my life been doing the past 20 years?

I’m not the only one asking this question, by the way.

A girls’ getaway to California this last week proved my point…and also proved what I think most educated men already know—that a woman (and a group of women even more so) can take the tiniest shred of an idea and run with it way past left field.

After a day out shopping in Sausalito and strolling through the John Muir Woods, my girlfriends and I returned to our hotel room to find an “edible arrangement” waiting in a refrigerator that the hotel staff had carted up to our room for the very purpose of keeping my chocolate-covered apple slices and pineapples appetizingly chilled. We all knew who the charming culprit was—my boyfriend (whom I will leave unnamed until I am certain I have charmed him to the degree he won’t dump me for talking about him on my blog).

Of course, before any female analysis of the chocolate-covered fruit in the pot could begin, we all set about devouring it as quickly as possible. (I got first dibs on the chocolate-covered strawberries—it was my boyfriend after all.)

Once the four of us were satiated, our bodies strewn across two queen-sized beds, torsos propped on pillows as if we were having a high school slumber party all over again, Sarah piped up, “I don’t think anyone has ever sent me a gift like that when I’ve been away traveling.” I see her cocking her head to the side and getting that slight twitch at the corner of her lip that she gets when she’s about to claim something is suspect.  “Have you, Shiloh?”

Shiloh, whose heart has been recently decimated, shakes her head. “No, never.”

Megan, who is in her third trimester, continues munching her chocolate-covered apple slice and offers no opinion.

“I’ve never experienced anything like this either,” I say, though I can sense I have gained temporary “admired woman” status among my friends.

We make a rather hasty group decision (because it’s almost dinner time) to chalk this up to a delightful form of male chivalry and admiration to which all of us are unaccustomed but which seems…well…kind of nice.  Who doesn’t like to end their day with chocolate-covered berries and pineapples carved into flowers?

So…out we go to dinner at an Italian café, followed by cocktails and bread pudding at the hotel bar.  We return to our hotel room.  We are casually sprawled about the room again in our yoga pants and PJs, and there is a knock at the door.

It’s 10 p.m.

We exchange looks. No one moves.

Then Shiloh, the bravest among us, hops up, opens the door, and a white-coated waiter is standing there with a platter loaded with more chocolate-covered berries, grapes, bread, and half a dozen types of cheese. He presents a card.  Shiloh opens it, reads it, looks at me.

“Holy shit,” I say, nevermind the presence of the room service waiter.

Of course, as with the first delivery, we really waste no time digging into the edible delights, though we conduct our female analysis of the situation in tandem with the devouring of Stilton on rye.

“Um,” Sarah finally volunteers, her lip curling just a little again, “does this strike you as a bit over the top?

Shiloh and I look up in mid-chew.

“It is a little over the top,” Shiloh says.

“Twice in one day,” Sarah adds.

I nod and put down my goat cheese, feeling a bit disconcerted.  Something about the decadence of it all is starting to unnerve me.

I can see Sarah’s brain at work. She is thinking, Is this guy a stalker? Is he marking his turf? Is he just loaded and has nothing better to do with his money?

I decide to take a shower, knowing that as soon as the bathroom door closes behind me, the girls will start analyzing, saying all the things they don’t dare say in front of me…not yet anyway.  (That is how women are. Whoever leaves the room will undoubtedly become the subject of the conversation.)

Ten minutes later when I re-enter the bedroom, all is rather quiet, as if some conclusion has been reached without my consent. “He’s not an idiot,” Sarah says. “He is trying to impress your friends, too. He knows the weight of female opinion.” And Shiloh and I have to admit there is some truth in this. After all, I’ve ditched guys I might never have ditched based on the weight of female opinion. What man in his right mind would dare anger the girlfriend contingent? And, conversely, not try to woo them, too?

There is no more discussion of the edible arrangement and room service cheese plate, however, until late the next day. I am in Macy’s in Union Square, waiting for Shiloh to purchase deadly stilettos and a red coat. I call the man who has been the subject of so much feminine analysis.

After some chatting, I remark that the girls and I will be returning to the hotel soon to eat the remainder of yesterday’s cheese plate.

“Wait a minute. What did you say?” he asks.

“The chocolate-covered strawberries and cheese plate you had delivered to our room late last night,” I say.

“What?” He is a little perplexed. “That was supposed to have been delivered tonight.”

I am overcome with relief at these words. I make haste of our conversation and run to Sarah’s side. “Guess what?! The room service was supposed to come tonight. It was a mistake!”

Her face lights up. “Thank God!” she says. “Two deliveries in one day is too much, too much like a cat pissing on his territory.  This is excellent news.”

We share this latest tidbit with Shiloh, who also shows great relief.

And then Sarah says, “We really need to call room service and complain.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because you might have ended the relationship over this,” she explains. “Remember last night how we were analyzing?  Thinking he was too intense?  Wondering if he didn’t have a screw or two loose in showering you with so much attention in one day?”

“Yes,” I agree, “we did take it rather far.”

“But then it’s also disturbing how much we can read into a cheese plate,” Sarah adds.

“I think we should get a complimentary cheese plate in restitution for the error,” Shiloh suggests.

We all nod, and when we get back to the hotel room, Shiloh takes charge of the situation, calls room service, explains the near-relationship-ending error they have made, and receives a response from the maitre de of “Oh, yes that was shitty of us.”

Half an hour later, we have a new cheese plate along with complimentary spring water. “The berries will be coming later,” says the waiter. “We have to heat up the chocolate. So sorry.”

Even the waiter knows not to mess with a room full of tittering females bent on analysis of male motives. Though in our heart of hearts we also know that to a man, a cheese plate is a cheese plate, and a chocolate-dipped strawberry is just something you give to a woman you love…and her girlfriends you are trying to charm.

True Love…and Why I Think Mark Twain Never Knew It

One of Mark Twain’s most famous and often quoted lines is “Familiarity breeds contempt…and children.” How well many of us identify with this quip, especially the first part, which actually isn’t exactly funny. Only last week, I was chatting with a colleague who said, “I’ve been married 40 years, and I’m just grateful my wife still speaks to me.”

I suspect many of us who are married (or have been) have asked ourselves if this is just the way things are. We marry, as a friend of mine says he did, as a result of drinking too much alcohol (wife no.1) or “a momentary lapse of reason” (wife no. 2) and hope for the best, thinking if we get lucky our lives might look a little something like a fairytale.

Cautionary fable might be more like it, however.

A friend of mine told me the other night after I found my brain rattled by yet another run-in with love gone awry, “Your life reads like a movie.”  The comment was uttered partly in admiration and partly in an “it’s entertaining to hear about, but I sure wouldn’t want to live it” manner of speaking. You see, I’ve been proposed to six times. That I turned down four of those offers would make me appear wise. The problem is I accepted two. I only wish I had the excuse that I was drunk at the time.

I’m not sure marriage is the problem though.  My friends and I often talk about the poisonous metals present in wedding rings that make the wearer turn into a creature no longer recognizable—a beast who has become demanding, critical, resentful, and likely to take advantage of all his or her partner’s weaknesses. I do not necessarily excuse myself from having been poisoned by 14 karat gold rings. Maybe next time I’ll try platinum.

My ex-husband says marriage sets up expectations where there were none before, and that’s the downfall of us all.

I have to disagree (no surprise there—the poisonous wedding band metals are likely still in my system).

I’m not exactly a hopeless romantic either. I’ve never subscribed to the idea of “soul mates.” I remain unconvinced there is one man out there destined to fulfill all of my romantic desires. That being said, however, I do believe in true love.

What is true love?

Well, I’ll tell you…it’s certainly not what you think.  It’s not love at first sight.  It’s not the passion you feel when the devastatingly handsome man with the sparkly brown eyes kisses you for the first time. It’s not the chest flutters you get when you think of him.  All of that, my dears, is infatuation. And infatuation is fleeting.  Even love is fleeting.

But true love: that is something else entirely, and I guarantee it is not something the father of American colloquial letters ever experienced.

How do I know?

I know because familiarity makes true love grow.  Whereas the love most of us experience and marry into begins as a bright flame that gradually sputters and often even goes out completely, true love can begin tentatively (though not always) and then widens and deepens with time and familiarity.

It does not retreat over time. It builds.

I’ve heard psychologists say the average person experiences true love only once a lifetime, twice if he or she is lucky.  Those statistics are pretty sad. It means when you find it (if you’re smart enough to recognize it and, even more importantly, nurture it) you better damn well hang onto it.

Unfortunately, most of us never find it, or, if we do, we kill it as promptly as we can or maybe even deter it from growing in the first place. That’s because true love is scary as hell.

I should know. I’ve experienced it at least once, a fact which terrifies me to no small degree at the tender age of 37 given that true love experience number one didn’t work out so well. If psychologists are to be believed, I’m on my last chance at this gig.

I had my first experience of true love quite accidentally.  It was one of those “I have nothing to lose” relationships I thought would never last that makes one go full out on vulnerability, risk, and “reckless honesty,” as fellow contributor Susannah Herrada likes to call it. The interesting side effect of throwing all caution to wind is that it connects you with another human being on levels the average romantic relationship never experiences.

I have frequently tried to explain this to people who have never experienced it, and usually, at best, I receive blank looks.  Other times, I find my sanity questioned.  So I’ll make an effort here to tell you what I’m talking about, to tell you what true love looks like.  Maybe you’ve seen it, experienced it. Maybe it’s right there in front of you waiting to happen if only you will let go of all your inhibitions, fears, and resentments.

You know you have a case of true love on your hands, friends, when you not only experience all the usual characteristics of love (or infatuation) like persistent thinking about that beautiful man with the sky blue eyes and persistent longing for him but also the ability to feel that persistent longing (and find it deepening) with time.  And I don’t mean the growth of infatuation over a few months. I mean that two or three years into the relationship you love that person more than you did after six months’ acquaintance, and you find that love deepening with each passing day.  It’s that rare kind of love you might see once in a blue moon when a couple who has been married 50 years is still holding hands and kissing on the front porch at sunset.

Where true love is concerned, you not only love your beloved’s finest qualities but you love his weaknesses, too.  You don’t just accept those weaknesses, you love them.  And you long to protect them, not use them to manipulate and harm.  This is a person whose eyes you can gaze into for hours, maybe days, without boredom.  And again, you still feel this desire after years and years.  There is nothing he can do to deter you from loving him. You may feel anger against him, but it does not diminish your love, no matter how much you may wish it would.

You see, true love is not all wine and roses. In fact, it can hurt to the core, even when it is good. Because when you love someone to the depth that you reveal all of yourself, every last shred of your vulnerability, you make that person a part of you. It’s not living on tenterhooks, mind you. True love is a deeply secure feeling, but it is deeply painful when the beloved is outside your reach. It is the kind of love Pablo Neruda describes in Sonnet XVII when he says it is a love “where I does not exist, nor you / so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, / so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.”

True love is the kind of love that risks all without hesitation.  It says, “I trust you. Take all that I have, and I lose nothing.”

But before you jump up and raise your hand, and say, “Yes! Yes! I’ve seen that! I’ve known that!” examine your love.  I once loved a man so deeply and fully and accepted and adored all that he was, even the qualities others saw as liabilities, that I offered, if need be, to sacrifice all that I knew to occupy a space beside him till death.  I waited for him “like a lonely house,” windows aching, and when he would not come of his own volition, I gave him a hard shove, an ultimatum.

And still he would not take that final leap into space that says, “I will expend the last full measure of my devotion for love of you.”

I found myself facing the hard reality that I felt true love for him, but he did not feel it for me. As a friend of mine once said to me, “Real love does not need shoving.”

The object of my affection, you see, had given doubt a foothold and allowed it to fester until he was overcome with fear, as most of us are, of giving way to full-on vulnerability, the vulnerability that says “be willing to give up all that you know to get something better.”

It’s the same kind of fear, you see, that makes people miserable in their jobs fail to leave them to start the business they’ve always dreamed of owning or that prevents a grand move to another continent when a delightfully tantalizing (if frightening) opportunity beckons.

You have to give up to get. It is a law of nature. Death of one thing is necessary to create life in another.

You may be wondering how I have fared in this grand scheme of true love gone awry.  Well, I can say I have fared better than the man who let me go.  At least I will never need ask “what if?”  I threw my heart into the ring and risked its pulverization, found it pulverized, in fact.  And when the dust had settled, I picked up the pieces, poured them into my pocket, and set about the long, slow process of putting them all back together for round two.

Because yes, there will be a round 2.

That is how life goes.  The lessons keep coming until we learn them.

I often wonder if the man I believed to be the love of my life will ever learn his own. In the aftermath of the end of that relationship, he said to me, “I am a fool.  I will regret this all my life.”

It may be so.

But only if when his round 2 comes, he commits the same error a second time.

I wish I knew the secret to finding true love. I still am not certain if it requires a certain mix of two people.  I am not certain if you can have it with one person but not another. I do know, however, that it’s worth trying on for size.  That person who is in your life right now, that sometimes makes your heart skip a beat, consider taking the frightening risk of being real with him and see where it leads.

Because one thing I do know is that you will never find true love by being anything other than who you are and loving someone else for any other reason than that he is being exactly the same—the person he is and wants to be.