Why Men Cheat

Your husband could be one of those dogs who, no matter how good you look, how well things are going in your marriage, how much attention you give him, or how willing you are to meet his sexual fantasies, he will cheat on you. Your problem is you are you, and he wants something new. Doesn't even matter if she's not as good as you; she's different.

It's hard to compete with different. Or it could be the other woman is there, and you are not. It's hard to compete with there when you're not there.

Men are really no more complicated than that. Some may have morals or restraints or inhibitions that make them resistant to women who are a) willing, b) different from you by just not being you, and c) there when you are not. Many men do not have inner cops. They may be, for the most part, good husbands and fathers. They just have this impulse and no moral compass to keep them from acting on it.

Then there are the men that we push into the arms of other women who are a) willing, and b) different. They may be even very similar to us, like a younger version who happens to be around, even if we are also around.

How does that happen? We let it. Consciously or unconsciously.

Last night, my husband and I were discussing a friend we had not seen in awhile, and to my surprise, he told me this friend had left his wife. How could he leave his two children, I asked? I grew up in a time when couples stuck it out until the kids were grown or 'til death did them part. My parents did. His parents did. Both marriages were doomed from the get-go, but they put in 25 years before making their escapes through death or divorce. But my husband said he understood how you could leave your little kids behind.

How?

Well, if she's nagging you all the time, if things are never good enough for her, he said.

I was stunned. That's all it takes in his mind to break up a marriage with kids?

Which brings me to the marriage of Elizabeth and John Edwards and the mistress Rielle Hunter. If you were ranking this trio in terms of who is most at fault, you'd probably rank them 1. Rielle 2. John 3. Elizabeth. Or even 1. John 2. Rielle 3. Elizabeth. What bastard would put Elizabeth first? I would.

Elizabeth was once slim and lovely, and with such a family fortune, she could hire a trainer and a plastic surgeon and stay slim and lovely for a long time. But after the awful tragedy of their teenage son dying in an auto accident, she was determined to replace him. It took two tries to get another son and she was 52 by the time she accomplished it, after years of hormone treatments and rumored egg transplants.

You can imagine that in John's eyes, a replacement son probably wasn't that high a priority, especially if it turns his wife into a lab experiment and their sexual relationship into a breeding chore. Maybe he knew no new baby could ever replace the one that was lost, and the best thing to do would be hug each other a lot and move on. After the physical punishment of two pregnancies followed by menopause, Elizabeth ended up looking exhausted and shaped like a sack of potatoes.

Then they go through a second major disappointment of not being elected vice president of the United States, and then she gets cancer. (And you have to wonder if all the hormone treatments late in life to carry two more babies to term had anything to do with that.)

Right in the middle of all this, a dumb blonde waltzes into John's life, her video camera pointed at him all through the campaign, and tells him, and I quote, "You're so hot." That's all it takes. Really. That's all. Men are that easy.

Let's put that dynamic on a scale and weigh it against the cancer-ridden, shapeless, exhausted wife who tried to replace your beloved son with a couple of new babies that you have been too busy to bond with. Which way does the scale tip? "You're so hot" or "You failed to make me First Lady"?

Tiger Woods cheated because he could. He's away from home being fawned over by pancake waitresses. David Letterman's wife is frumpy looking for a woman married to a multi-millionaire. It can't be because she can't afford a pilates class and a great haircut. Meanwhile all these happy, ambitious, young interns are working with her husband, a man whose ego needs massaging because Leno is beating him in the ratings. Hillary Clinton is busy and bitchy. Monica is adoring, brings pizza, and isn't opposed to trying new things like thongs and cigars. Like Chris Rock says in one of his comedy routines, it was Hillary's job to give the president blow jobs. She wasn't doing her job. Angelina is beautiful, has lots of babies, and wants to save the world. Brad is beautiful, wants lots of babies, and wants to save the world. Jennifer wants to make another crappy romantic comedy and doesn't have time to save even one Third World baby. Who's trying and who's not?

It's a cautionary tale, and it crosses my mind whenever I am less than thrilled with my own husband's accomplishments, or I nag, or I take stock of how much weight I've gain since we met. I'm not really trying, am I? You may say I shouldn't have to keep qualifying for the job of wife that I already have…but that's in a perfect world. In the real world, we are married to men.

We Are What We've Been Traumatized By

Not long after finishing Wally Lamb's "She's Come Undone," which is a massive excuse for bad behavior caused by trauma, I started thinking about my own traumas and how much bad behavior I could attribute to them.

Then Sunday night I watched the episode of "Ruby" on the Style network where all the fat ladies went to a six-day intensive training retreat to free themselves of their food addictions. The exercises were nearly identical to the alcohol rehab sessions the drunk mommies on "20/20" had undergone a couple of nights before. First, we find out what events in our childhood traumatized us. Then we get our revenge by slamming an ottoman with a rubber bat. Then we cry. People hug us. We're cured of our addiction.

Most of the traumas included abusive daddies and people we are dependent on dying and leaving us adrift. Childhood sexual abuse didn't come up on TV, but I'm sure it's a big one. It's the centerpiece trauma of Lamb's book.

In the early '90's, I tried to get some psychological help, but since I couldn't afford it and had no health insurance, I had to go to almost equally crazy people affiliated with various charities and religious organizations. We tried hard to unearth a childhood memory of sexual abuse -- there were adequate outward signs -- but I never could find a memory or a culprit. They'd give me crayons and I would draw ducks.

I've been thinking about listing all my traumas here, but it's too hard to do it succinctly without each one becoming a long story to itself. But let's try.

My mother slaughtered my pet ducks. What I took away from that is the person you would think should have been most protective of me was devoid of any empathy for me.

My first dog was run over. That probably happens to a lot of children, but maybe because of the cold way my family handled the situation, I never attached myself to a dog again. To this day, I'm afraid of dogs -- not that they will hurt me, but that I will love them. The dog was buried outside my bedroom window and for the rest of the time we lived in that apartment, I never slept in my own room again. I slept on the floor of my sister's room. You would think that would give my parents a clue.

My first divorce. It was actually a relief that the relationship could now be declared over with a reason my family would accept -- infidelity -- and it's not like it came as a surprise. I had sacrificed everything that did mean something to me -- my future -- for a relationship that actually didn't mean much to me, ended up losing both, and having no idea why I didn't have the strength to get out of it before the damage was done. Being a single mother at 22 with no family support in town is a tough way to start a career in a demanding profession, especially prior to women's lib.

My second divorce. This time I had no good reason my family could accept, so I was ostracized. I was escaping from 17 years of a co-dependent relationship with an older alcoholic, and finally thought I had found a safe place to land if I jumped, but I was wrong. I quit the husband, the job, and sold the house to pursue a dream which fizzed out spectacularly with a huge helping of betrayal from people I trusted. I was knocked for a loop that lasted for two years. Then the person who picked me up and shook me off also left me, which knocked me for another loop, but out of those ashes, I finally found the strength to create for myself what I most wanted instead of waiting for someone else to give it to me.

Good things happened for awhile, and then I got to the point where I actually had something to lose again and couldn't take the risks anymore. With security comes the death of creativity. With security comes the fear of losing that security. And with fear comes inertia. Hmmmm. So gradually, I am becoming the fat lady, and although I am not quite in need of an intervention yet, I might be in another few years if I start waddling toward ridiculous poundage. What pain am I feeding? Which trauma on my self-image board is to blame here?

What should I be yelling while I slap the ottoman with my rubber bat?