Treasure This...

As I walked out of the subway today, my older self visited me briefly to say, "Treasure this." And so I looked around and looked at my life at this point in time, and noticed what there is to treasure.

I treasure...

Walking through the Farmer's Market in Union Square on a lovely Saturday afternoon and being able to appreciate the perfection of leeks.

Spending two hours rehearsing today with extremely creative women and then drinking a bottle of wine (and then a bottle of champagne) with them while sharing stories of broken loves and snow sex.

Eating really good pad thai for lunch.

Finding a new novel to read. ("One Day" by David Nicholls. I'm loving it. I didn't think people wrote love stories anymore.)

Getting a post-card from my Italian friend whom I love and miss so much.

Living in manhattan while I'm in my 20's.

Finding a yoga studio that feels like a home.

My doorman asking me about my next play.

An email from dad about the importance of love.

Having brazilian coffee in the morning. And in the afternoon.

Finding Pocky's at my local grocery store last night.

The presence of my little brother on his computer in the living room.

The bitter sweet feelings of the last weeks of summer in New York, when flings either end or turn into love, and the air is a bit cooler at night.

Being given a starbucks gift-card yesterday.

Hopping into the shower soon to get ready for a good-bye party for a fellow blogger, who has become a new and wonderful person in my life.

The sunset I get to see every day from my balcony.

My Buddha, who laughs for me every day, no matter what I do.

My teeny-tiny herb garden, which lives on even when I am neglectful.

My new giant bar of soap.

Coconut water at the health food store. $4 very well spent.

A continuous email thread between me and three blog friends that is always hilarious, heartfelt, and completely inappropriate. - You know who you are.

A friend's baby, so incredibly sweet and loving.

Salt-water taffies. Which I always think will taste better than they actually do.

My shower being unclogged.

My mom sending me emoticons on skype chat.

The surreal silence of a new york saturday evening.

The consistent footsteps of my upstairs neighbor, reminding me that there are lives I know nothing about happening all around me.

...

And there are more, I'm sure, but those are today's treasures- today's particular collection of smiles.

7 years ago

While looking under my bed today for a lost sock, I found a box of old diaries. I opened one of them right on a page that was written exactly seven years ago. It was my last night at home before I left for New York. I didn't know that it would be the last time my parent's house ever really felt like home, and that I wasn't just going off to college, I was going off to the next part of my life and the person I would become. I didn't know how hard that first year in college would be, and how well I would get to know loneliness and longing.

August 24th, 2003

Hi Beth, (I name my diaries)

Well, yesterday I went to Ibiza (a club in Sao Paulo) with G* and I got drunk and I kissed F* and then today I had a hang-over, and so last night was fun and not that fun at the same time. Tonight is my "last" night, tomorrow I'm off to college, wow. We just had dinner at the Outback. I'm not ready to leave Sa yet Beth. And my room.... so much... But I'm excited about college. Real excited! I'm nervous about having roommates and all that. I also talked to B* today. He's so nice. And he likes me a lot Beth. And J* wrote me an email. But I'm still into T*, who's stopped emailing me, and dealing with the end of things with R*, who's still contacting me every day. How confusing. And my friends are still kind of mad at me and siding with R*, which is messed up. I can't wait to leave it all behind. Will there be any boys at Sarah Lawrence? Like, datable boys? I'm so in love with my tattoo. I can't believe I got a tattoo. I'm glad I have a tattoo as I go to college. I'm currently obsessed with Cyndi Lauper and American Dreams. I miss Spain. Europe was so fun. Well, I'm tired and I wanna sleep a lot... Good bye Brasil, college here I come!

Good night,

La

Throughout the next couple of years, I would find datable boys at Sarah Lawrence, I would forget about most of the boys mentioned, I would get three more tattoos, I would stop watching television, I would miss home terribly, I would make many new friends, I would miss my old friends, I would drink a lot, I would travel to Europe a few more times, and I would make New York my home.

Me, in college, with my long hair dyed orange at the tips, writing poetry on the grass.

The First Kiss

Age 13: My first time at a night club.

Club K. My mom called it Club Cu. Translation: Club Asshole.

I had fought with her for about six months until she let me go. Her argument was that Sao Paulo was too dangerous and I was too young to go clubbing- (I totally agree with her NOW, by the way. But back then, I thought she was being way over-protective and paranoid). She finally let me go, because all my friends had gone a bunch of times, and every time they went, I locked myself in my room and blasted Sheryl Crow songs. I think she was afraid I was going to start doing drugs or cutting myself or something, so she let me go.

My curfew was 1:00am.

At 9:00pm I met up with my friends. We all wore some variation of the same outfit: tight black pants, heeled boots, and a sparkly or see-through-ish shirt. We met up at someone's house. They told me how it would all go down. The hardest part was getting in. The club was for 16-year-olds, and we were 13. So they taught me how to "look 16". Darker lipstick. Don't smile (I wore braces). Talk about our boyfriends while standing in line (we didn't have boyfriends). It was starting to sound nerve-racking and I expressed my concern. They assured me I'd be okay because I was tall and had big boobs. The next most important thing (the whole reason we were going to the club) was getting boys to kiss us. Well. I had never been kissed. I asked them what I'd have to do. "Basically," one of them said, "A guy will grab your hand if he wants to kiss you. Or he might try to grab you by the waist from behind on the dance floor. Take a look at him, and if you're not interested look at one of us and we'll save you. If you're interested, smile at him but pull away. He has to try at least three times before you let him." I took in what she said. But I didn't think she had understood my question. What do I do once I "let him"??? I had no idea how to kiss someone. I was dying to do it, I couldn't have been more ready, but I didn't know much about technique. Seeing my puzzled face, another friend said, "Listen, your first kiss might feel a little gross. You might not like it. Just let him do it. You'll learn instinctively. Let it be short and sweet and then move on. It'll take a few kisses to get the hang of it." Okay.... I was not at all clear on the subject, but I was too anxious to keep talking about it. We had to go.

At 10:00pm we arrived at the club. It was packed. We stood in line for what felt like an hour, but was probably just fifteen minutes, before we got to the bouncer. This was the moment. I tried to look "16". I tried to look like I didn't care. Meanwhile my stomach was fighting to keep itself from falling out of my ass. He didn't card us. We got in. Victory.

We walked in to the huge club with its green and red lights, and the rush was immediate. The rush of freedom, of rebellion, of being somewhere dark and forbidden. For these couple of hours, we were independent and free. We had to do two things: go to the bathroom, and then go to the bar and drink "FlashPower" (the drink before Red Bull). We went to the bathroom, checked ourselves out. We ran into some of the cool girls from school in there, and they totally talked to us like we were cool too. I felt so cool.

On our way to the bar, a guy already grabbed my hand. I looked at him, as instructed, and checked him out, could this be the guy to give me my first kiss? His nose was huge. No. I looked at my friends, they intercepted, pulled me away, he let me go, and we proceeded. I loved it. I felt so wanted. It was going to be a special night. We made it to the bar, got our energy drinks and hit the dance floor.

Uh-oh. They definitely failed to tell me that this club only played techno. And I had absolutely no idea how to dance to this kind of music. I had hippie parents who had raised me on folk music. At the very least, I thought a song had to have someone playing the guitar in order for it to be called a song. This techno stuff felt like someone was beating the club up with a hammer the size of China. I looked at my friends. They were basically pulsing their torsos. I tried to follow suit. And just as I thought I was getting the hang of it, a guy cut into our circle and stood in front of me. Uh... they had not told me about this approach. He took both my hands. He was taller than me and he had green eyes. That's about as specific an image as I have for him. He asked me my name. I told him. He said I had a beautiful name. I smiled. He told me his. And then he asked if he could kiss me. At this point, I'd forgotten all the rules. I just looked him in the eyes and my face must have said, yes, you're the one, kiss me, because then he kissed me. And it didn't feel gross or weird at all. I liked it right away. I wanted to kiss him forever. I put my arms around his neck and he pulled me really close to him. Everything in my body was responding in a new way to this experience, telling me I was no longer a child, I was now an almost-adult. I couldn't tell you what song was playing, I don't know how long it lasted (my friends said it went on for a really long time- they were shocked), and I don't remember what thoughts went through my head. At some point, the kiss ended. We danced around each other a little bit. And then my friends and I decided to go to the bathroom again. I looked at him, said good-bye, and went off with my friends, never to see the boy who gave me my first kiss again.

When we got to the bathroom, they wanted to know everything. I wanted to look at myself in the mirror. I wanted to see if I had changed. Something had to have changed- I just felt so different. I finally knew what it was like. I had finally been kissed. But I looked the same, and my friends wanted to talk more than they wanted to hear what I had to say. They told me what it looked like to them, "You totally knew what to do with your head, it was impressive, " and "His hands were pretty low on your back, I thought he was gonna try to feel your butt." We analyzed it for a while, and then went back out to the dance floor so the other girls could find boys to kiss too.

When I got home, I could barely sleep. I replayed the night over and over in my head. I smiled for about a month after that.

For a while, I thought my first kiss had happened all wrong. It was just too unromantic. I had been kissed in a nightclub? By a complete stranger who I never saw again? Why didn't it happen under a starry night, with a boy who'd courted me for years? Had I fucked up something I could only do once?

Eventually, though, "first kisses" got upstaged by other "firsts", and I stopped thinking about it too much. The memory faded over the years, until all I could remember of his face were his eyes.

I look back on it all now, and it makes me smile. The sweetness of those 13-year-old girls with raging hormones, feeling so incredibly powerful and free for a few hours at a nightclub. The outline of the boy's face and how he looked at me and let me know with his eyes that I had been chosen.

It wasn't a perfect first kiss. It didn't set the bar too high for romanticism. It wasn't like the movies. It was very "real life-y". And that's okay.

It remains as a sweet imperfect memory of a time that was as torturous as it was precious.

Oh, adolescence.

image from here.

A Lesson in Self-Worth

There was a girl in my high-school, like there always is, who was the popular girl that all the boys I had a crush on wanted to date. For our purposes here today, let's call her Courtney. Blonde, hot, not tall enough to be threatening, thin, leggy, breasty, and enviably confident, Courtney was completely likable and completely hatable.

Courtney and I were friends. Kind of. We had some classes together, we hung out sometimes outside of school, and we seemed to get along. We could have been closer friends, if I didn't secretly hate her. I couldn't help but be incredibly jealous of her. She had a perfect smile, while I wore blue retainers. She had perfect straight blonde hair, while I had frizzy wavy untamable black hair that would never be blonde. She had clear smooth skin, while I took life-threatening anti-acne medication for years. She was athletic and always looked fit, while I was terrible at almost every sport and struggled to find jeans that could contain my love-handles. She dated all the cute boys, while I wrote poems about them in my journal and hoped they knew my name. Essentially, she was everything I wasn't, and she had everything I wanted. I was constantly haunted by my own comparisons to her and the consequent feelings of unworthiness they planted. She had what it took to be loved and happy, and I didn't.

But beauty can be bought and confidence can be faked, one learns, and ugly ducklings can become swans, with enough money, products, and therapy.

At 16, someone fell in love with me. He was in college and he was crazy about me. Suddenly, I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world. And I was happy. Sort of. I didn't love him like he loved me, but I loved how he made me feel. Courtney stopped being such a threat to me. I realized that we could both be happy, and we could both be beautiful- she just had it easier, perhaps, but I could have it too. She could have every guy in school at her feet; I had my guy, and he had picked me.

And then it all went to shit.

One day, he was picking me up from school and we were in the parking lot waiting for my brother. For some reason, we started talking about sports and how I didn't like doing anything athletic at all. He was a basketball player and he loved sports. I said something like, "Why do I need to do sports? I don't like them," and he said, "Well that's fine. But look at that girl. You'll never have her legs." I turned around to look at who he was referencing. And there she was. Of course. Courtney, walking out of volleyball practice. The meanness of his comment would have been enough to destroy me. Coupling it with a comparison to Courtney was like being told, flat out, "Don't entertain illusions about yourself. You're not good enough. You're not her. You'll never be that beautiful, you'll never be that happy."

I broke up with him that day. He realized what he had done and apologized a thousand times. Sent presents. Wrote letters. Declared his undying love over and over again. But it was done. I was scarred.

In retrospect, what hurt the most was that I had really thought that to this one man, I was more beautiful than Courtney, and falling from the only pedestal I'd ever been on ended up hurting more than if I'd never been on one to begin with. I thought if I could be perfect, to just one person, then I could start to see myself as worthy of love and happiness. I didn't see then that he loved me even though I wasn't perfect, and I certainly didn't understand the value of that. I saw only the fact that he had seen in Courtney something that was lacking in me, and I had trusted him to be the one to tell me nothing was lacking in me. I needed him to tell me I was just as good as she was and that I was worthy of love, because I couldn't do that for myself. I had placed on him the responsibility of making me feel lovable and beautiful, not knowing that no one could mend my self-esteem and worthiness issues but me.

What I've learned is that it's really hard to take responsibility for our own sense of worth rather than placing it on another person. It's even harder to accept being loved for our flaws and imperfections, and to love another for their humanness as well. It's hardest, perhaps, to love ourselves for our flaws and imperfections; for our humanness.

It's a lesson I battle with daily. But now there are no Courtney's. Just my own ghosts.

My sense of self still gets challenged. But every time, I see I am able to hold on to how I see myself and who I am with more strength and love.

My flaws are mine, as are my virtues, and if I don't accept them, who will?

Larissa Re-Thinks

So after my last post and the comments and emails it elicited, I felt a bit like an angry man-bashing feminist, a position I'm certainly not comfortable with. And my first concern was that people would stop reading my blog. (Hah.) The fear that people will stop listening to me is often what causes me to tone down my anger and try to come off as a reasonable woman who sees both sides of everything, even behavior/thought processes that I consider blatantly sexist. My second concern was that Wombat would hate me, even though I was really hurt by his post and had already "un-followed" his blog. The fear that what I say will cause a man, even one I don't know at all, to hate me, or to hate women, keeps me quiet a lot of the time too.

I took in the comments and emails, all of which included some variation of normalizing compartmentalization, and did not completely disagree with everything you guys said- an admittedly difficult realization.

I was extremist. I often am. When there are so many people out there justifying sexist behavior- especially women- I feel there is value to voicing my feminist opinions without apologizing for it or fearing consequences such as losing the appreciation of men. It doesn't mean I don't see the other side or that I think it's all cut out in right's and wrong's. Life is blurry. Moral values can make a lot of sense when written, and then no sense at all when we try to live by them, or even just think by them. That's why I usually write about my own personal experiences, rather than just laying out my opinions on certain topics. My last entry was pure opinion because it came from a place of anger, it was written quickly, and it was intended as a way of opening up a discussion on the topic, which was something I hadn't really tried out before.

I am still upset that Wombat can get away with his blog post, that the comments on his page were playful and supportive of his list, and that I did not succeed in shifting perspectives on the subject- in fact I think I only reinforced how everyone already felt about compartmentalizing. But I can see that my response was not helpful, and that my vision, too, was both limited and limiting. Extremism also stunts possibility for connection, and I'm not happy with myself for falling into it.

So, blog world, I offer here my apologies and a promise to think further on the topic of compartmentalizing, in hopes to write a more balanced and thought-out post about it sometime in the future.

I hope you'll all still read my blog, listen to my perspectives, offer yours, and keep this dialogue going.

Compartmentalizing Women: Response to Wombat

As I read Wombat's post today, "Never Look a Gift Babe in the Brain," I got really really angry. As he relaid how men compartmentalize women, I felt my stomach turn. Although I know he probably meant it much more lightly than I took it, I found it unsettling and offensive. Here's my response.

I've heard people say, "Compartmentalizing is just what men do. It's how their brains work."

Well. I think compartmentalizing women is not only sexist, it's cowardly. Especially in this day and age. If you keep a woman in one compartment- say, the "not a girl you bring home to mom" compartment, then you absolve yourself of the responsibility you have over her feelings. If you established that this is "just" about sex (I'm still trying to figure out what about sex is so "just"-y, but okay, that's not the point right now), then you're off the hook- if she develops feelings it's her fault and she has no right to hold you accountable for them. How convenient! And if you're with a woman who is "girlfriend-material", well then she better live up to those expectations, always. If she does something that's "un-girlfriend-material"- say, fantasize about being a naughty nurse or wear a skirt that's too short for someone who's in a relationship to be out wearing- then you get confused and start wondering if you really love her.

I have touched on how limiting it is for women to be compartmentalized in my post "Sexuality of a Woman." But I'll say it again: Compartmentalizing women is an ILLUSION. That woman at the bar who's wearing a skimpy dress and goes home with you on the first night- believe it or not- that woman still wants to be loved. And that woman you can imagine being the mother of your children- that woman still wants to be fucked. And both women are capable of playing each others roles. We choose- or shift instinctively- who we want to be for the different men we meet, usually based on who they let us be. We either put on the "good girl" act or we unleash the "bad girl". We rarely let both co-exist because we know that men compartmentalize us. (Not all men, and not all the time- I am aware I am speaking in general terms here- but I'm responding to a particular train of thought.)

Men and women have brought up that women also compartmentalize men. "He's a jerk, I don't wanna date him." or "He's dating material." To which I say, guilty as charged. We absolutely do that. The difference is that the guy who sleeps around does not usually want to be seen as "dating material" or wish to fit into that category in any shape, way, or form, whereas the woman who sleeps around is rarely happy to remain in that category forever. Even Samantha in Sex and The City settled down with someone in the end, and it was always pretty clear that her rejection of intimacy was the survival technique of woman who had been hurt too many times and couldn't come to terms with denying her sexual self in order to be seen as datable. There doesn't seem to be a male counterpart who struggles with these things in the same way. Similarly, even when women compartmentalize, it is mostly a defense mechanism against being compartmentalized first.

Categorize women and you are limiting who we are.

Let us be ourselves, all of ourselves, and we will grow.

And I bet you, too, will feel much more like yourself, encounter a new sense of empowerment, and find much deeper happiness and pleasure.

Sounds like a good deal to me. Why don't you try it out?

The Ex Test

It's like they can smell it.

All of them. On the same week. Within the same 48 hours.

Here's the scenario, perhaps it's familiar to you too:

Merry you are, with your life and your healed heart and many things to smile about, when it's like the Universe suddenly wants to test you a little bit. Just how strong are you, it wants to know? Pretty damn strong, you're thinking. Oh really. Can you handle a text from an ex? Well, yeah. That's what the delete button is for. How about three? Hm. Not as easy. And then a phone call from one of the really old ones whose number you most definitely forgot by now? WTF? I thought we said we'd delete each other for good? And then maybe an email from the one you swore off all contact with until you forgot why you said that? FML. How about a facebook friend request from the one who might as well be dead to you- in fact, you vaguely remember attending his funeral, but maybe that was just in your darkest fantasies? This is fucked up, Universe.

And it all happens over the course of two days. I. Kid. You. Not.

In portuguese we say, "Ninguem Merece." Meaning, "Nobody Deserves That." As in, not even the cow you work with who borrows your pens and chews on them and then returns them with all her saliva still on them deserves that.

What could they all possibly want? Well. They're innocent enough. "Haven't talked to you in so long, thought we'd touch base." Or, "Ran into so-and-so who I know through you and thought of you." And, "Didn't realize I still had your number, thought I'd check to see if it was still accurate." Things like that. The Universe isn't that mean. I mean, at least they're not reaching out to say, "I'm getting married next week but realized you're really the love of my life and I was an asshole, please take me back and let's move to Cambodia where my in-laws-to-never-be won't find me?" At least nobody said that. Right? But still. The past is a witch. Just when you're comfortable with the fact that it's where it should be- behind you- it decides to peek in just to remind you that it may be farther away, but it's never gone.

There's the age-old question of, Can you be friends with an ex? Usually, the answer for me is no. Not that all contact has to be cut off completely, forever, but a close friendship, no. Mainly because I don't want to hear about current girlfriends, I don't want to sit across from someone at lunch with the lingering feelings of how different we are now, and I don't want to read facebook statuses that say, "hot girls playing volleyball outside my window. score." It's just too hard on me. I love deeply, and I don't exorcise the people I love from my heart; I let them leave behind a piece of themselves in the part of me they've touched. I honor my past, which makes it difficult for me not to be affected by it when a whole bunch of it pays me a visit.

The questions are inevitable. Why are you thinking of me now? Do you think of me often? Are you happy? Were you changed by me? Do you miss me? Does your mom miss me? Does your current girlfriend sleep through your snoring? And so on...

There's some mild freaking out. There's some paralysis. There's some search for comfort, usually found in food and Sex and The City. There's a whole lot of, "How do I respond to this? Do I respond at all?"

But then, once the questions stopped racing through my mind and the initial shock subsided, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I was okay. I cared about them, I cared about why they were reaching out to me, I cared about everything that was happening, but I was still my happy, healed self. No one could take away who I am now by bringing up who I was. The memories of the loves and the heartbreaks had surfaced, but they no longer had as much power over me. They were exactly that: Memories.

Even all together, all those ex's could not overpower or overwhelm me. The love and pain I experienced with each one of them were now sources of my strength and power. My "weaknesses" and "soft spots" were what rooted me and allowed me to grow.

I started to shift my perspective of what was happening. The Universe probably wasn't testing me as much as it was teaching me new things about myself. I am strong, I have a handle on my past, and my heart has no limit on how many love stories it can hold.

I think that's pretty awesome, actually, and I'm grateful I got to realize it.

So even if it was a test, I think I passed.

image from http://just4ufit.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/healthy-heart.gif

Infidelity

A friend of mine recently sent me an email about cheating. She had just heard someone recount their stories of infidelity and was extremely upset by it, and was wondering why she was so upset, being that the infidelity did not even directly affect her. Although I am not innocent on the subject- or perhaps because I am not innocent on the subject- I knew how I felt about it and why she was probably so upset. Since other people have also asked me to write about this topic, here are some of my thoughts on cheating.

First of all, let me clarify how I define cheating. I think my friend Chris best described it when he said, "It's less about what actions are taken and more about how the other person will feel."

When two people have made an agreement to be exclusive and one person develops an interest in another and acts on it- be that kissing, dating, or having sex- without clearing it up with the person they are committed to, I call that cheating. If there was never an agreement made regarding exclusivity, then I don't call it cheating. Irresponsible and unkind behavior, maybe, but not cheating. Also, I don't consider looking at other people or fantasizing about people other than the person you're with cheating.

Someone recently said to me, "What they don't know can't hurt them."

To which I say, Bullshit.

In a nutshell, cheating is not cool because its essence is rooted in lying. And all lying does is limit space to grow, since a relationship post-cheating-and-not-telling-the-truth-about-it is then between two people who have two different ideas of what their relationship is. The party that's been cheated on is now living an illusion, and the cheater can only focus on keeping up that illusion.

If you're going to cheat, then at least be honest with yourself about what you're doing and the potential damage you might be causing.

I have taken part in an infidelity- big time, in a way that affected an innocent third party. I was in love, and I thought that justified my actions. I knew that what I was doing was wrong, but I was too blindly in love to really consider it. He was the one who had made a promise to someone else and he should have known better, but I was no child and certainly never entertained any illusions about just how much responsibility I was holding over someone else's feelings. I knew what I was doing. And when eventually we had to stop, not only was I heart-broken, but I was then haunted by my guilt. It took a lot of therapy, meditating, writing, yoga, crying, and creating to move past this huge disappointment and forgive myself. Although I learned and grew because of how much love existed between us, I would not do it again. I hurt someone, tremendously, and I hurt myself just as much in the end.

I also had a brief fling with a friend's ex-boyfriend. He was her first love, and although they had broken up three years prior to my hooking up with him, I knew it would hurt her. We thought about never telling her. She was a dear friend. But I didn't want her to have any illusions about what kind of a friend I am. That action made me a shitty, flawed friend, and I respected her enough to let her choose whether she wanted to forgive me and keep the friendship or not, so I told her. She was really hurt, and I am still recovering from it. She never spoke to me again. I would not do that again either. I had to do it, so that I could learn, and so that I could see that I am capable of majorly fucking up (I have this problem where I try to be the perfect friend/girlfriend/daughter/sister, etc. and it does nothing but destroy me). But it was a lesson that came at a very, very high cost.

I've actually never been cheated on, so to speak. I was in an open relationship for a while, so I couldn't call it cheating, but I remember really hating the fact that he slept with other women. I've also been led on about what a particular situation I was in was really about- one of those, "I wasn't lying, I just wasn't telling you the whole truth" kind of things. It hurt me deeply, and I learned that I don't think it's right to shut off the part of ourselves that wants to love someone so much that we won't be with anyone else, because the thought of that person getting hurt is not worth any fuck in the world.

I certainly believe that love can end and that people want and fall in love with other people, and that there's merit in honoring those feelings. I also think that different couples can have different arrangements, and that with honesty and awareness, it's possible to create a relationship with rules that suit both people's wants and do not necessarily follow society's morality rules. I'm an advocate for honesty, all around. I much rather hear, "What we have might not be working, because I'm developing an interest in someone else," than live in the illusion that everything is okay and we're still in love and loyal to each other so as to avoid a conversation about someone's potential infidelities. I also believe in forgiveness and compassion. I don't think someone who cheats is a bad person, incapable of truly loving someone, or inhumane. I don't think someone who forgives a cheater is weak. We are all capable of hurting each other, and we are all capable of realizing it and overcoming it.

Over the course of all these lessons and mistakes, I've learned how I aspire to live: If I'm in love, I don't cheat. If an agreement is made that says we are exclusive, I honor it. I value loyalty and respect, even though I do not believe human beings are 100% monogamous by nature. I think our inner animals want to fuck all the time, and not just be with one partner.

But we're not just animals. We are humans with consciences, and we must honor that part of ourselves too.

The most beautiful thing about being a human being, I think, is the ability to care for others. Care so much that we take in their feelings before acting upon our desires. Cheating, in that respect, is a violation of our humanity. It says, "I am going to pretend not to care about another person's feelings. I'm going to do this even though it will hurt someone else, and then I'm either going to feel guilty about it, or I'm going to justify it until I feel nothing." There's nothing sadder than shutting off a part of ourselves so as to get away with or go through with something.

As humans, our ability to care for each other and empathize is what sets us apart from other species. Our awareness of each other's pains and our power to cause it or prevent it gives us an understanding of infidelity and lying that other creatures don't have. To dishonor this is to hurt our humanity and limit the possibilities we have for love and respect.

Although I feel quite clear about this, people are constantly presenting me with scenarios that seem to challenge my thoughts. In the end, nothing is black and white, wrong or right. But if we can be honest with each other, then I think that's a good place to start.

What do you think?