How You Doin’ Blondie?


Call Me Reverend Dimmesdale

It makes me slightly ill when I hear about the sexual affairs of married people. The cheating, the excuses, the understandings. It really does make me physically sick. And who am I to react like that? Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, right? Isn’t my current boyfriend married and the father of sweet little toddler? Don’t I rationalize it away by saying to myself, “It’s different, they have an understanding?” Don’t I judge others by their actions but myself by my intentions?

So why does it plunge me into such a state of utter despair to bear witness to the infidelity of others?

Because I still have a little bit of hope, that’s why. As jaded, hateful, and bitter as I am, there’s still a little tiny part of me that believes in the traditional family unit, wants the traditional family unit. There’s a part of me that dreams about finding a nice, decent, hard-working, down-to-earth, blue collar guy who thinks the sun rises and sets on me; of finding a man who sees me as the most beautiful woman in the world, and the woman he wants to mother his future children. There’s a part of me that cries sometimes, lamenting the loss of the sacred union and a love that weathers storms and the put-yourself-first mentality society promotes. There’s also a part that hates myself, really and truly hates myself, for the life I’ve made.

I hate you, husband who “works late”; I hate you, housewife with the “personal trainer”; I hate you, unhappily married man or woman, who thinks your time is better spent fulfilling your own desires then working on repairing and stabilizing the relationship, the commitment you’ve already made; I hate you so much it makes me angry, angry and sick to the point of vomiting.

But I hate myself even more.

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