He, his wife, whom he doesn’t love, and me, whom he’s crazy about. Let’s talk about it. Let’s touch on, raise, and stir up this eternal topic. He, his wife, whom he doesn’t love, and me, whom he’s crazy about. A bright, juicy, sweet, and sour poisoned apple. We’ll talk about it because we both want it. Because I have something to say, and you’ll need to hear it. Because I’ve walked the path of greatest resistance, which you’ve soaped your skis for. Put them down by the stove and listen to what old, wise Kaa has to say. So, just today, just for you, in honor of our company’s birthday and completely free! Ira Pe sings. I’ve gotten myself into this triangle more than once. The balance of power has been different, and the plot has been different too. People have come to me to settle down forever, to live happily ever after; people haven’t come to me, and I’ve run away myself. But it always ended badly. If only it just ended.
It was always bad, no matter how I deceived myself. And I deceived myself in different ways. That’s what we’ll talk about. About the myths and legends of a grown-up girl who stuck her sharp heel into the belly of someone else’s family but tries to keep the most innocent expression on her face. Because the case is exceptional. The newest in history. Unique. There’s love here, guys. I’m not some kind of predator. I’m honest. And it’s not my fault; he came himself!
Anyway, let’s go!
Myth #1. Having an affair with a married man is immoral, but in our case it is love.
Nope. It’s still immoral. Stealing is still stealing, even if it’s done for someone else’s benefit. Maybe they’ll reduce the sentence, but they’ll still put me in jail. And if I steal for my own benefit, they’ll add on extra. Don’t deceive yourself; you’re acting immorally. Against human laws. And no love can justify it. Love is a separate story. I won’t even talk about it here. But if you’re in pain all the time and sometimes feel good, that’s not a sign of love.
Myth #2. If I don’t see my wife, it means she doesn’t exist.
She exists. In his every morning, afternoon, and, sorry, night too. She lives on his phone, and she doesn’t always write him nasty things. Sometimes, she writes that she misses him and asks for candy. And he smiles and writes something that would make your and my ears turn red. They have their own evening rituals, half-hints, jokes that only they understand. They have a whole life that you don’t and never have been. And she has value for him, damn it. That’s why he lies to you with his sad eyes as he says goodbye and runs headlong there. Home. To his wife. Believe me, she exists.
Very much exists. And she does it every day. I had the good fortune to be friends with my man’s wife—the Santa Barbara of my psyche did strange somersaults. I was unpleasantly struck by how similar they were. They were very close people, with a huge common backpack on their shoulders. True, she was more honest and kinder than him. And she loved him very much, even me, because at that time I was in his habitat.
Myth #3. He doesn’t love her; he has nothing to talk about with her.
Stop right there. Let’s go from the beginning. It was to her that he proposed to spend their lives together. Or simply agreed to it. He got down on one knee or chose a special place; he made up words or passively listened to her. But he took this step; you won’t believe it. He did with her what it seems he hasn’t yet decided to do with you.
Living together every fucking day. Seeing her in curlers, eating her signature scrambled eggs, choosing perfume for March 8th, going to stupid stores for a warm jacket for yourself and a new hat for her. And so on all your life, can you imagine? Wife is not a swear word. It is a measure of a man’s determination. And, apparently, a measure of his real feeling. And it seems there was a strategic reserve of this feeling and this determination. Where did they put it? It’s their question, baby. Only theirs. Not yours and mine.
Myth #4. He loves me.
Stop again. Reread the previous point. And try to repeat this mantra again. If it doesn’t work out, feel your ears. Remove the noodles stuck to them, and stop loving with them. Ears are not for love, no. They are for listening to music, birds singing, and your child’s breathing. And we learn to judge a man’s love by his actions. So, what did he do out of love for you? But let’s be honest. Did he joyfully and jubilantly present you to the world? Did he take you to his damn mother on their infinitely distant summer cottage? (Just don’t lie that it doesn’t matter to you.)
Is he concerned about your values and has he included them in his plans of action? Is he honest in his intentions and open to real, non-underhanded relationships? Does he have something to offer you other than meager words and password-protected addresses? Did he buy a damn ring, choose a damn romantic place and choose the damn right words? Is it important to him what you sweat about at night when you suddenly ask yourself—does he have sex with his wife??? What if! (I don’t want to upset you, but most likely he does; they are married. And the worst thing is—it will not be cheating on you, no.
You are not a wife. It is she he is cheating on with you. In short, has he done anything to confirm his endless text messages and tearful revelations? Or is he hanging on your ears and nobly whining about his lost life and responsibility for those he has tamed? In short, take a closer look at your ears. And use them for their intended purpose. Or better yet, at least temporarily fill them with wax, like the old wizard from Cinderella—so that evil people do not use them for their “love”.
Myth #5. I am completely satisfied with everything, I am a person with broad modern views.
… the Russian man is broad—even too broad, I would narrow it down! (c) You and I are not touching on the topic of professional deals now; it’s not interesting. We are not talking about business, where a man gets his bullish high and a woman her due bonus. We are talking about love, ears, modernity, and geometry. We are talking about the soul. Let’s rewind and try to find that moment in your life when you castrated yourself for the sake of something. When you started talking briskly about freedom, equality, and brotherhood. When you decide that a full diet is unnecessary, a sandwich on the run is enough. When you slammed shut the children’s fairy tales with pictures about a knight and a princess in a tower, about victories over dragons and Kashcheis, about “the only woman and the only man,” and chose Samantha Jones as your ideal. Listen, do you need it?
Are you really like that? There is another organ in the human body. It is called the heart. Try to listen to it; does it not ache about anything? Are you really okay with a quickie in a hotel? Or do you want radiant, open, fabulous, damn knightly devotion? Be more honest with this organ. Because it is created for love. And believe me, in our swooning modernity, love still exists. And it is still the same—honest, open, ready for anything. It does not change at all. It is always the same.
Myth #6. He will “mature,” come to me, and everything will be different for us. We will be happy.
We know; we’ve been there; we’ll tell you. “Matured” came, and we had the same crap, 4 years, with complications. Only I found myself in his wife’s place in this geometric equation. Because it’s not about her, his hateful wife. But about him, who doesn’t know how to work in a relationship and is used to running for a quick doping on the side. He’s simply not capable of taking responsibility for his choice. To be honest and loyal. To be in sorrow and in joy. He needs someone third, fourth, or tenth to take his “soul” and loins off. Maybe he’ll change someday; that can’t be ruled out. But it’s not “your love” that will change him, baby. Your love is not able to form someone else’s moral framework. This is the personal work of each, alone with yourself. So get ready for a dizzying flight under the circus dome—to the place of his former wife. When he and his suitcase knock on your door.
Myth #7. Their relationship hasn’t been going well for a long time, and I have nothing to do with it. Our love simply became a catalyst in this half-life reaction blah blah blah.
Aha, and there was a piano in the bushes by chance. Let’s start with the main thing. What should fall apart will fall apart without our participation. And if it doesn’t fall apart, it means it’s holding up. And don’t put a charge of dynamite under something that’s crooked and lopsided but standing. We don’t have the right to this building. It’s someone else’s. And is it holding up so badly that all our tears, reproaches, mental anguish, delicious dinners, and fishnet stockings are not able to destroy it?
One guy, decorating my auditory organs with noodles, called his marriage a “business project” in the name of a child. It took me a while to understand that not every business can last 10 years. It seems their project is not so bad, alas for me, the damned one.
Myth #8: These are my feelings, and I love him—no matter who he is with.
This is where it gets really bad. This is the myth of selfless love. And it’s really hard to get through it. Here you’ll have to deal with “love” with a capital L, and this is a slippery topic; many people have broken their legs on it. But let’s talk about love. Let’s talk about it. Let’s try to understand—who do you love? Him? Or the “bright image,” which is not necessarily related to the original. Most likely, it does not, because the producer of this image is you.
And this real guy was made by someone else. And the chance that your drawings matched is minimal. Do you know him, the real one? How he argues that his wife doesn’t need such expensive creams; how he whines when he’s sent for vegetables; how he doesn’t want to play with his son but wants to watch football? Love is a daily joint action, weaving, creativity. And its habitat is reality. And only it. Everything else may not be bad, but it’s fantasy. It’s critically important not to confuse these two poles.
Myth #9. They are not married. Officially.
I don’t care. He’s not free. Run, Forrest, before you get into trouble.
And the biggest paradox is this: most likely, she is good. His wife. And perhaps you are similar in many ways, and if you met in a cafeteria, a swimming pool, or at a training session, you would like each other. And become friends. She is not bad, only because he is standing between you. Try to make an adult decision not to make shit out of her. On principle. Out of female solidarity. Out of a simple conviction that you can’t make candy out of him. The components are wrong.
All these myths—I created them myself and destroyed them myself in the delirium of asymmetrical relationships trying to find my stable happiness. At the cost of broken foreheads, broken foreheads and broken foreheads. I had big problems with love and geometry. And finally, I will allow myself a small but practical piece of advice (although you did not ask for it). If you do not like the married guy who hit on you, raise your hands to the sky and thank Jesus, Allah, the universe or whoever you believe in. And quietly crawl away without entering into dialogues.
If he turned out to be nice, run without looking back and pray along the way. But if suddenly he seemed mysterious to you, unhappy in his own way and somehow close in spirit, then the question of speed becomes decisive. Maximum speed and distance you can run. Only then, having caught your breath and feeling the proximity of the Canadian border, whisper to some guardian who is responsible for your safety: urgently, urgently, help me!
Save me from this! Well, and when you meet someone who is 100% ready to be with you, to be old-fashioned, devoted, always—remember with a kind word the old wise Kaa. He will be pleased. That he also left his mark, so to speak. That another moth does not burn on this candle.
