Taking a Turn For the Serious

When I got my paycheck last Friday I toggled between my online shopping carts at Forever21 and Amazon. Books? Clothes. Clothes? Books. Books won. I ordered five books for $50 dollars from Amazon. The first four should arrive today or tomorrow. I’m excited.

Five months ago my money would have gone to Forever21. Clothes would have beat books like scissors cut paper in Rochambeau. My penchant for fashion hasn’t disappeared completely but my need for new threads has. The only clothes I’ve purchased in the past few months have been for the gym. On the horizon: new running shoes.

Two weeks ago I returned to work from lunch to hear exclaims of “Congratulations!” One of our coworkers had announced she was pregnant. I love pregnant women. I find the toothpick-swallowed-a-watermelon look adorable. I remain in awe of the capabilities of the female form and I went home at the end of the day thinking about babies.

Last Friday at a company meeting she had to excuse herself to pee every ten minutes. She confessed she was losing weight and couldn’t stand the sight of food. She was getting up three times a night already to use the bathroom. The kid wasn’t even here yet and already her sleep cycle was being interrupted. After work, I met my boyfriend at the movies. I laid my head on his shoulder happy it was just the two of us.

It’s a bizarre and oddly sobering moment when you realize the libidinous urge you had to have or accomplish something has utterly evaporated. I once desperately wanted babies with blue eyes and blond hair. I once enjoyed reading InStyle, Marie Claire, and Elle. Now I am content to read the Wall Street Journal, The New Yorker, The Week and my newly ordered books.

It seems as though things have taken a turn for the serious and I’m not really sure how I feel about it yet.

I Have a Problem With Cheating

He handed me the most recent issue of The Week and I fell victim to the magazine’s cover image and headline: a caricature of a man smoking a post-coital cigarette and lying next him an iPhone whose screen showed a woman doing the same. “Is sexting infidelity?” it asked.

I held up the magazine, “Answer this question for me,” I said.

“Well, yes, it is infidelity,” he responded. “Good,” I thought. I felt relieved.

“But,” he added, “I can understand why men do it.” He went on to say that biologically men just have the urge to constant have sex.

“That’s such a cop out! Men should be able to control their impulses,” I said. “What about the woman? She never had a chance to fix the relationship, she never knew he was unhappy.”

He went on to explain that for men, cheating isn’t about having a relationship it’s the allure of something new.

Perhaps we should thank former congressional Representative Anthony Weiner for opening this controversial can of worms. He has left in his wake a pregnant heartsick wife and a nation reevaluating the definition of cheating. 

The question is: is sexting cheating? Or is that a definition for each particular couple to create? Does this fall under the “it’s not cheating if it isn’t touching” safe zone? According to The Week 65% of women and 80% of men would cheat if they were guaranteed they wouldn’t get caught.

“It seems as though you think cheating is personal,” he said. “For guys, it’s purely physical.” We continued our discussion of The Week’s article later at my apartment. For me, cheating is personal. I’ve been cheated on physically and emotionally. While each dishonest act is unpleasant, physical cheating imparts an additional emotional wound. Let me warn you, it isn’t purely physical to your partner.

Is it really that difficult to remain faithful? Does sex get that boring? I liked the conclusion that The Week reached: that those who cheat like Weiner aren't particularly concerned with a relationship or even meeting their mistress but that they're narcissists looking for attention. 

Marriage Material

This is a good starter ring, eh?

The Harvard Business Review published an interesting article in its most recent issue on the effects of acetaminophen and the part of our brains that processes social rejection and physical pain. As it turns out, social rejection is physically painful according to a study performed at the University of Kentucky. Heartache does exist and it’s not just in your head.

Conversely, what does social acceptance bring us? Does the same relief we feel having been accepted into an exclusive club translate to how we feel when we are in a secure and loving relationship? I’m no Harvard graduate or University of Kentucky professor, but I’m betting affirmatively.

Last week, three couples I know got engaged and I received my first “Save the Date!” in the mail; it’s officially wedding season. Even Google reminded me. Today, when I typed, “When” in the search bar it finished my query with, “is the best time to get married?” Through no fault of my own, all I can think about are engagement rings and weddings. My level of anxiety has increased tenfold. I have added Tylenol to my grocery list.

What woman doesn’t want to be surprised with a gorgeous, sparkling for-all-the-world-to-see declaration of love? I know I do (eventually) and as a single girl I shamelessly check out others’ bling-bling. Which has made me wonder, as women, are we more focused on the engagement than engaging?

After you say, “Yes!” comes the “I do.” It’s easy to be surprised at a proposal and emotional in a white dress, but when it comes to the next 50 years of your life, how do you manage your marriage? It feels like we have reached a place in society we have already been: where a table for one is still looked down upon and we assuage the (social) stigma of being alone by getting married.

I am admittedly guilty of listening to the voice in the back of my head that emphatically urges me to become part of a set. “Find him! Find him! Find him now!” it forcefully coos. “The voice” is getting louder with every relationship status update on Facebook. I have no doubt that a Tiffany-blue or Cartier-red box is popped open to reveal its shiny contents many young females feel inside a sense of relief: “I’m part of the club.”