I always love your columns, but I feel your advice ...
I always love your columns, but I feel your advice to the guy trying not to cheat-well, let's call it a slap on the knuckles with a ruler-while entertaining, didn't get to the solution [7/9/03]. Yes, all us single people are pissed off that the guy's dipping not once but twice, but he wanted advice about how to stop. I agree infidelity has much more to do with the cheater than the cheated upon, but if he truly wants to stop cheating, he should tell his wife, not picture her fucking someone else. Confession is good for the self-esteem, and it could enlist his wife into "helping" him stop cheating. Or end his marriage-which could be for the best all around.
-Ralph
Are you insane? Exactly whose self-esteem would he be helping with this ill-advised confession? His? This guy has a wife and at least one girlfriend on the side at all times-I don't think his self-esteem could handle another boost. The only thing this admission would do for his wife is make her feel crappier than she already does. Because, believe me, if your man's been stepping out for eight years, odds are you know-at least on some level-what's up.
There are only very few times when it is acceptable to confess an indiscretion:
? You realize you've caught an STD or some form of genital-dwelling insect life that you have most likely passed on to your spouse.
? Your side piece is preggo and planning on keeping the little bastard.
? You're leaving your wife for your mistress. (Ha!)
? You're caught with your meat in her mouth.
Try as I might, I could only come up with four scenarios where telling your spouse would be a not-so-horrible idea. Otherwise it's simply selfish and cruel.
One of the big-time loves o' my life died about five years ago. We'd been together six years when he suddenly announced that he didn't love me and wasn't sure that he ever had. As we were living together at the time and I was still completely in love with him, this was understandably quite upsetting. (Especially given that he was the lease-holder.) A couple years after our split, I heard he'd been diagnosed with brain cancer. It seemed pretty obvious that he wasn't long for this planet, so I got in touch, figuring I didn't want him to stumble off this mortal coil with unfinished business. I did this even though hatchet-burying was still a couple years down the road according to my schedule.
Even before they'd hooked up, I'd always loathed his new girlfriend. She was one of his co-workers, given to baby talk and overly coordinated outfits-barrettes that matched the socks that matched kicky berets worn at a cutesy angle? You get the picture. But now that he was dying, his girlfriend went out of her way to be accommodating and sweet to me. I appreciated the effort.
When he finally kicked, she asked me to say something at the memorial service. It had been a while since I'd thought about anything other than what an asshole he'd been, so writing the eulogy was rather cathartic. I believe those in the mental health profession might term the experience "closure." Or so I thought.
A bunch of our friends got up and spoke at the service, reminiscing about what a loveable curmudgeon he'd been and how even though he was caustic and a bit rough around the edges, he was always a great, stand-up guy. Then it was my turn. I stood up in front of the casket that contained the body of my now-dead ex-boyfriend and nervously adjusted my inappropriately short skirt. I gave a witty-yet heartfelt-spiel about him and our life together and how even though he dumped me he wasn't a complete scumbag or anything.
Then his girlfriend got up to read what she'd composed.
Being a gal given to melodrama, she'd written it in timeline format and performed it like she was at a poetry slam. As she dramatically ticked off the date of their first stolen kiss, my friend kicked me under the pew. "You were living with him then!" she hissed in my ear. Huh?
The list went on, my friend pinching me with each new piece of evidence. It took a few seconds (and several bruises), but eventually it all became clear: Motherfucker had been banging her behind my back. Not only that, but just five minutes earlier I'd stood up and told a couple hundred people what a swell guy he'd been. And not only that, now this bitch is up there telling the world-and me-that I'd been a chump! A cheated-on fool. And he was already dead, so I couldn't even kick his lying, philanderous ass.
See! Five years later and I'm still grouchy about it! In this case-like so many others-ignorance would've been bliss. So no, Mr. Cheater should not tell his wife about his dalliances. He should just keep his dick in his pants. Harumph.