On Women and Infidelity

I have some thoughts. 

And maybe a theory.  Though even as I type it, I sound presumptuous.     

I think it would be hard to have an affair if you have excellent girlfriends.

Gulp. 

I’m basing my theory on personal experience alone.  See, I have excellent girlfriends.  They sweep me off my feet with surprise and romance.  We routinely get carried away.  In a completely heterosexual way, of course.  

Now my sister is my best friend but she’s family.  And I expect family to support me, be there for me, etc.  She has to listen to me and come when I need her.  Ah, but friends–they could leave me (oh dreadful day) or let me down (never). 

They choose.  

How does this prevent infidelity?  My girlfriends meet needs for intimacy that my husband cannot/does not meet.  I absolutely could not expect Scott to meet all my intimacy needs.  How exhausting.  My husband is extraordinary–he listens over and over again as I process tricky scenarios or have a meltdown at the end of a rough day.  But I’ve learned he doesn’t love listening to me recite poetry.  And while he listens a few times to the same story–you know women work out our feelings by hashing the same story several times–really, two times is his limit. 

My days are filled with beautiful friends.  Most memorable moments lately:

• apple picking
• pie-baking day
• sitting in a car sharing secrets while the babes sleep
• a full day of eating yummy foods thrown together at the last minute in the midst of uncontrolled chaos
• making vegetable soup
• sharing a bottle of wine with one who had a rough day 
• dreaming over the phone with the most amazing massage therapist on earth  
• discovering this sign posted above my head only after Norah spilled her juice and ran amuk at coffee underground:

There is something utterly breathtaking about strong mommy-friends.  The shared vulnerabilities (that none of us really know what the heck we’re doing or if we’re ruining our children for life), the forgiving nature of playdates (that naps must come first–mine or the child’s–and that I may be wearing the same clothes I did the day before), and the help, oh the help (like the time Carey role-played niceness so Norah would get the hang of um, not yelling at me). 

What more could I need?