"Why We Cheat"

It seems like Esquire runs some version of this story quite a bit. Here's the latest. I find it to be a very cynical view on marriage.

http://www.esquire.com/features/why-we-cheat-0412

More than I believe in the sanctity of union and promise, I believe that everybody cheats. If you have not cheated yet, it's because you are still too grateful to be secure, or you have not yet had the opportunity, or the right color of red hair has not come along and sat down at the bar on a Tuesday when the jukebox was playing Leonard Cohen and your manhattan tasted like the future.

The piece is written by a woman, seemingly an urban, uber-sophisticate. As much as you would think that these types are crawling around every big city if you read Esquire, I spend a lot of my time working alongside younger, often single women, in a big city. I have been married for seven years, together for 11. Not once in that time has a woman that knew I was attached hit on me or even hinted at anything. Not once.

 

In many ways 'Esquire' is a text of male American passage into manhood. Hence the annual justification of infidelity camouflaged as moral philosophy; the semi-annual advisory on the correct cut and cloth for an Italian suit; and the monthly advice on how to get a close, comfortable shave.

 

The hell I'd ever be in a bar that played Leonard Cohen.

 

Speaking of cheating, I need to follow up and see why my subscription from Christmas never got started.

 

You are wearing the wrong suit/shoes/cologne and drinking the wrong scotch/wine/beer and your shave is insufficiently close. Check next month's issue for further advice.

 

Once I managed to power through the trite sex cartoons and cheesy cliches, I was left with overwhelming urge to just puke.

 

But enough about the New Yorker...

 

http://www.sportsjournalists.com/forum/threads/76954/

Dupe?

 

Lots of great longform writing, and a terrific and important history in literature. But what pays the bills over there is male American aspiration and fantasy.

 

Nope. Different story, same theme.

 

You know what's hilarious? I mean, other than the gob-smacking dumbness of the whole damn piece.

It's an essay predicated on the idea that everyone cheats.

And then, at the end, she asserts that she's never been cheated on.

Oh, cupcake. I promise you. You have.

 

Undoubtedly. As we speak, the guy's probably ripping the Lululemons off one of her upper West Side Pilates class friends.