Body and self

When I was married, and Rob and I would head out for a night of fun, I didn’t really think about what else I needed to put on other than something I liked to wear.

As a fortysomething divorcee, I’ve learned that a woman needs more than a hot outfit and brains. She needs one particular accessory, and it can’t be bought.

Jennifer and I decided to dress up and play adult for the Mill Valley Film Festival opening party. As we mingled and schmoozed, we ran into my former neighbor who moved away a few years ago, a zaftig-plus late-fiftysomething Goddess-type who favored big flowy dresses and clunky but comfortable shoes. There she was, hand-in-hand with an attractive older man — her fiancé, I later discovered.

We chatted for a while, caught up on neighborhood comings and goings, and said our goodbyes. Then, as Jennifer and I stood by ourselves, I looked at her and realized we both had the same impression, a politically incorrect one at that.

“If she could find a man … ” said Jennifer, dressed in leopard-print stilettos and a tight black dress that accentuated her curves and cleavage. Unhappy with the dating scene, she’d been getting really discouraged.

“I know, I know, I know. Don’t say it.”
“But …”

“Jen, the difference is this. She’s always looked like that, and she’s OK with it. She’s totally comfortable in her skin. And you know what? The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that that’s the sexiest and most attractive thing a woman can be. Confident.”

Jennifer was quiet after that, but in my mind I was replaying a conversation I’d had with Elaine the day before.

Elaine is a knockout, a smart, sassy divorcee with a toned, shapely body. But when she, her boyfriend Geoff and I had taken a bike ride on the Tiburon loop one Sunday — ostensibly to enjoy the gorgeous day and get a workout but in reality to head to Sam’s for laughs, people-watching and a shared plate of fried calamari — I saw a side of Elaine I’d really never seen before.
But a side that, sadly, so many women display all too often.

“Oh, I can’t eat another calamari ring,” she exclaimed after eating about three. “I had so much to eat last night, I can barely fit into my jeans anymore.”
“Babe, you look great,” Geoff said. “Eat!”
“No, I’ve just gotta lose those five pounds…”
“You’ve got to be kidding. You look bitchin’,” I chimed in half-heartedly, not because she doesn’t — she does — but I just hate to hear women put themselves down like that, especially in front of their lovers. I looked at Geoff — I’m pretty sure I detected a look of exasperation and disgust. I could see this kind of talk wasn’t sitting well with him, and he was right.

It’s so unattractive for a woman to diss herself — much more so than the extra five pounds, imagined or not.

The next day, I called Elaine. I love her too much as a friend not to say something.
She already knew what I was going to say. “I know, I know. Geoff hates when I talk like that, and we had a big fight about it recently. He told me I sound needy and insecure. I’ve got to stop. I will.”

My heart went out to her, but I know where Elaine is coming from. We women focus on those extra pounds, the saggy breasts, the cellulite thighs, the wrinkly stomach from giving birth. We think that’s all that others see in us, too. Then we look around us here in Marin — we’re surrounded by bodies perfectly sculpted with the help of personal trainers and hours of spinning classes and yoga. And whatever jiggly stuff remains after that, well, there’s Botox, liposuction and implants. And there’s our model of “beauty.”

No wonder our teenage daughters are puking in their high school bathrooms a few weeks before the prom so they can fit in their slinky dresses, as I heard a counselor at Redwood High once say at a parenting conference. No wonder a recent study by Girls Inc. found that 84 percent of girls believe they have to be thin to be popular.

I don’t want to buy into that, and I don’t chat up my weight or my imperfections in front of the men I date (no matter what I think or what I share with girlfriends). But as I look in the mirror, my flaws — which seem to be increasing with each birthday — are the first things I see. And I’m not immune from self-degradation, either, subtle as mine might be.

It was pretty apparent me early one Sunday morning. I had just finished my morning hike when my cell rang. It was Sean, the single dad I see from time to time. He sounded shaken.

“I’ve just been in an accident. I’m OK, but my car’s totaled. Can you come pick me up?”
“I’m on my way,” I said, as I hopped into my van and zoomed up 101.

I picked him up, took him home and as we sat outside his condo, I noticed him looking at me. Well, staring was more like it. Then it dawned on me. I’d just rolled out of bed and headed for the hills without a shower, combed hair, deodorant or my “face” — the eyeshadow, mascara and lipstick I always wear, except on my hikes.

For the first time, Sean was seeing “me” — Kat Unplugged.
“Oh my! I’m practically naked!” I sorta joked, but he didn’t hear me because he was talking at the same time. I didn’t hear him, either.
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I said you’re beautiful.”
I blushed and chortled. “You hit your head and smashed your glasses in the crash, remember? You’re practically blind.”
“No, I’m not, and you’re beautiful.”

I felt embarrassed, not only by the compliment, but by my inability to believe what he said, to embrace it, to accept it for what it is.

Why is it so hard to take a compliment like that? Why do I, like Elaine, like so many other women, want to disallow it, make fun of it, put ourselves down?

It reminded me of my former neighbor, comfortable in her skin, in her own beauty. No wonder she attracted a man, a man who saw in her the same things she saw in herself — “I am beautiful, and I celebrate my femininity and my beauty.” It made perfect sense that a confident woman would end up with a man who wanted to be more than just her lover — he wanted to be her fiancé, her partner. We are so quick to judge each other — and ourselves — and we are missing the point.

I thought about that recently, as Sean and I woke up in a sweaty tangle of arms and legs and with his face in front of mine, his eyes studying my face.

I know exactly what that face looks like first thing in the morning; smeared eye makeup that I forgot to remove the night before; the dehydrated bags under my eyes, courtesy of the two glasses of red wine I had with dinner; god knows how many errant hairs that managed to escape my aging eyes and the tweezers; and what is up with that breath?

“You’re beautiful,” he said, as he kissed the tip of my nose.
What could I say but, “thank you”?

A throbbing, heaving education

Here's one thing you're never quite prepared for as a parent — the sex talk.

I know, I know. I should have been talking about it naturally all along. And I have been having lots of sex talks — just, you know, not with my kid.

His schools have been more or less taking care of it since fifth grade, but, still, I'm always on his dad — "Did you talk to him yet?"

"Let him learn on the school yard like I did."

Oh great, because that really has been helping generations of men (and frustrated women)!

But whenever I've tried to bring up the subject with The Kid, I get shut down faster than the bars at 2 a.m. "Mom!!!!!"

So the way I've handled it is to leave all sorts of books on puberty, babies, etc., around. Whenever anyone comes over, I get the odd look or two, but I can tell by the dog-eared pages that someone's reading them — and hopefully not my male guests.

But when you come down to it, how did most of us learn about sex? Some women have written in to LisaBindaCity's on romance novels, Bodice Rippers, and how reading them as teens introduced them to the world of carnal knowledge — where everything is throbbing and heaving.

I'm all for throbbing and heaving but that was, for better or worse, not exactly my intro to sex. I actually learned about sex from my parents. Oh goodness, no — they didn't talk to me about it, but they sure had a lot of books — "The Joy of Shttp://www2.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifex," "Our Bodies Ourselves," "The Kama Sutra" — in their bedroom. So I did a lot of reading, even though I had to do a lot of sneaking around to do it. (Note to Mom and Dad: Sorry! I went to confession and God forgives me. Do you?) But the best education was, of course, my best friend's older brother's Playboys, which he conveniently left "hidden" under his bed. In other words, good ol' fashioned porn.

The funny thing is, romance novels — which the says account for 26.4 percent of all book purchased, about $1.4 billion a year — offer women the same thing porn — be it Playboy, Hustler or sites like EuroTeenSluts.com — offer men: part titillation, part escape, part promise of something other (and presumably better) than what they have.

And the rather innocent bodice-ripping/throbbing members of the past have now taken a decidedly more erotic turn, becoming more pornlike than ever.

But then again, so have things like cookbooks and food blogs lately, not to mention whatever's happening in the movies, on TV and displayed in magazines. I don't know anything that hasn't been pornified.

When I was young, we had to work really hard to see things we weren't supposed to see. Now kids can download it on their cell phones or open a romance novel ... or cookbook for that matter!

So, what's porn and what's not?

Do kids know more about sex than we did at their age, or are they just getting a skewed version of it?

And shouldn't "throbbing manhood" be a part of everyone's daily vocabulary (if not activity)?

Do you feel lucky? Well, do you?

Sara and I were out for a bite the other night, catching up, when she asked me how a mutual friend was doing.

"Great," I said. "Kids are doing well in school, she just signed a big client and she's been seeing a really great guy for a few months now."

"She's so lucky in love," Sara sighed.

I started to agree but then stopped. Just what does it mean to be lucky in love?

People lump together luck and love a lot, or so it seems.

The dictionary defines luck as:

1. The chance happening of fortunate or adverse events; fortune
2. Good fortune or prosperity; success.
3. One's personal fate or lot

That puts love into someone else's hands other than our own. But is that how it works?

I think we're confusing a serendipitous meeting as "lucky in love" — the charming, smart, handsome man visiting from New York who happens to be in same San Francisco restaurant at the same time you are, sparks fly and months later you're strolling Fifth Avenue together. But the guy could have just as easily ended up being a two-timing, Vicodin-addicted spousal abuser.

So when you meet someone, randomly or purposefully — like online — and there's a connection, you enter the tentative beginnings of a romance. When exactly does the luck factor in?

I have met men, felt the connection and then, a few dates or months later realized that he _____ (fill in the blank): drinks too much, treats waiters and others "below him" rudely, talks like a homophobic racist — take your pick. Or maybe we not sexually compatible. And then, he and I part ways because I have decided that someone who talks or acts like that is not someone I want to be with, friend or lover.

That frees me to meet someone who isn't that way instead of trying to make something "work" with someone by hoping he'll change or trying to ignore it or staying with him because there's no one else around right now — aka the BTN (better than nothing) boyfriend.

Isn't that choice and not luck? Because if you continually make choices like that, I think at some point you chose the someone who seems more in tune with what you truly want — and that isn't luck. And if you choose to stay with that guy who drinks too much or puts down gays and blacks, and then you're unhappy sometime later, that does not make you "unlucky" in love, especially he was like that all along whether or not you saw it.

Do you think luck has anything to do with love?
Do the lyrics to Primus' song "Is It Luck?" say it all?
Would getting married in Vegas increase your odds of being lucky in love?
And if you truly believed you were lucky in love, would you ever wear it on your chest?

Coming soon to a relationship near you

All relationships take a little give and take. This we know.
But must they be so bloody and stupid?

Let's face it — some men like testosterone-driven action flicks as much as some women like sappy, happily-ever-after chick flicks. It's a gender thing.

I have been dragged to many war, monster and Western movies in my time. I'm not always happy about it, but I generally don't try to fight it if I like the guy and it pleases him — at least the popcorn and Dots are always the same (and I've been known to fall asleep at the movies, so ...). But I have drawn the line on Adam Sandler movies. The answer is, no, I won't go. His movies are beyond stupid. I just don't have the time to waste. And there's no way I'm going to a slasher horror movie, either. I'm sensitive, I get nightmares. I'm still recuperating from "The Silence of the Lambs," and that came out in 1991!

I'm not too much of a chick-flick watcher, either, although if it's clever and genuine, maybe. I prefer small, smart, indie or foreign films that make me think, that expand my consciousness, that don't always end happily. I long to find a man who appreciates those, too, but I accept that I'll most likely be watching them with my girlfriends or by myself.

But even sites like AskMen.com advise guys they'll need to compromise, offering some suggestions with Chick Flicks We Can Stomach

I've enjoyed my share of "guy flicks" — "Gladiator," "Saving Private Ryan" and "Jarhead" come to mind. Even "Troy" was OK — barely — just to see a beautifully buff Brad Pitt in bed with two women. But maybe that's just me.

So when "The Departed" came out on DVD, I was asked by a date to come over and watch it.

"C'mon, it'll put hair on your chest," he chided me.

"I don't want hair on my chest!" I protested — forgetting to point out that he probably wouldn't want it there, either.

But off I went to watch and I actually liked it, until it all ended in a (way-too convenient) bloody mess. And then, lo, an aberrant hair in a place Janet Jackson knows all too well appeared on my chest — a hair so long it could be dreadlocked.

Could it be?

Do you watch willingly or begrudgenly guy's flicks because it'll make him happy?

Do you drag your guy to chick flicks — and does he watch to make you happy?

And could you really fall in love with an Adam Sandler fan?

Boys gone mild?

I don't understand why men and women don't get why the other sex moves in the world so differently.

Ah, but that's because I have a son, and if you're the mom of boys, you kinda see (if not immediately appreciate) the differences from the get-go.

Forget the blue outfits we dress boys in as babies. I got my first real taste of what was ahead when some 12 years ago I befriended Sara, whose daughter, Ashleigh, was about the same age as Trent. Shortly after I met her, she stopped by one day to visit and as we said our goodbyes on my front porch, I saw her face turn ashen as she watched Trent take his new Tonka truck and send it flying down the stairs, denting it as well as the brick steps on its way down. I gave a faint smile, shrugged an "Oh well, boys will be boys" shrug and was hopeful that the budding friendship could survive.

I saw it in his kindergarten class when the girls sat together, coloring within the lines while reciting their ABCs and counting by tens while Trent and his testosterone posse were in the corner pretending to be Mutant Ninja Turtles and doing battle with each other.

No mother of a daughter can understand Life With Boys. I say boys because, although Trent's an only child, one boy is equal to at least three kids. They travel in packs, and at anytime a friendly mind-numbing video game gathering can errupt spontaneously into a wrestling match or Three Stooges act. They don't snack; they descend on the kitchen like locusts. They don't walk, they whirlygig throughout the house, which, by the way, always reeks of something that's part dirty socks, part gym locker room, part burnt pizza crust. While Sara's house was filled with sparkly pink things and lots of ponies, mine was a wasteland of Lego pieces — including the people whose heads, arms and legs were violently ripped off — and littered with Pokemon, Magic and MLB Showdown cards and shredded candy wrappers.

Sara and I often took the kids on trips together to museums, aquariums and zoos. On the way home, Ashleigh would talk about the baby animals and the stuffed baby animals in the gift shops, while Trent remembered anything slimy, gross, half-eaten or dead.

At some point, it occured to me that mothering one daughter is not even parenting. It's like having no children at all!

But, of course, that was some years ago. Now Ashleigh and Trent are 14, and my how things have changed. Oh, there are still pink sparkly things at Sara's house — Ashleigh's makeup and midriff-baring spaghetti-strap tank tops — but there's something new, too. Drama. There are tears, door-slammings and "I hate you's" at any given moment. " It is Girl Gone Wild. "I'm the one in perimenopause," Sara yells at her, trying desperately to maintain some balance. "I'll have the hormonal outbursts around here!"

And at Kat's house? There's still the occasional wrestling match and it's still stinky. But Trent is becoming a man, meaning communication is often down to a few mumbled, pained words. It's still littered, too, but now with Thrasher, Guitar Player and Surfer magazines, muddy cleats and athletic socks so dirty they're petrified. Drama? Not unless I'm the one losing it. In other words, Boy Gone Mild.

And every once and a while, he throws his lanky body on my bed and, patting it with his hand, says to me, "Come sit and talk to me."

Talk? I am so worried about him.

"Aren't you supposed to be all pissed off at me and generally trying to separate?" I ask him, suspiciously.

"Oh, Mom. That's such a stereotype."

I'm not positive but I'll thinking that my Zenlike resignation and patience (aided by some extensive red-wine drinking) during the Tonka-throwing, Ninja Turtle phases are somehow responsible for that kind of talk. Give a boy space to be a boy, and he'll become a man.

And I am learning to not only accept, but embrace the boy that remains in the man. There's certainly something pink and sparkly somewhere in me.

So, are you in the tearful, door-slamming house or are you living in the mumbling stinky house?

And I'm so sure I never gave my mother that kind of drama. Did you?

We're not connecting

Life can be full of surprises, but fortysomething single woman must, like Boy Scouts, always be prepared.
Like when life throws a gorgeous man your way.
In my case, it was at the gas station.

I was futzing with my gas cap at the Mill Valley Arco station when I saw out of the corner of my eye that the guy at the pump in front of me was watching me. I couldn’t tell for sure, but he looked pretty darn good.

I took a quick glance, hoping that he wouldn’t see me checking him out, but, of course, he did. Our eyes met, and he flashed me a smile, and it was a beautiful smile, complete with twinkling eyes and dimples. And he was more than darn good looking — he was hot. My pulse quickened. I smiled back and then, inexplicably feeling like the shy child I once was, tried hard to look at everything else but him as my mind raced — “say something, say something, say something!”

I’m normally a pretty talkative gal, but my mind went blank.
Suddenly, I noticed the perfect entry to conversation: He had a New Mexico license plate. I’ve been to Santa Fe! We could chat about ... New Mexico.

But, I said nothing, despite many more minutes of smiling and eye locking.
And then he was gone.

From sight, that is. His face, his smile, his dimples — those stayed with me all day. And night. And the next day.

It was at that moment that I became a craigslist addict or, more precisely, a Missed Connection addict.
Now I know many people post on craigslist to sell or buy something — I’ve unloaded faded plastic jungle gyms and a Matchbox car collection that The Kid, Trent, has long ago outgrown. Others just want to rant about Bush, their two-timing lovers or arrogant Prius drivers. But the truth is a lot of us read craigslist for the Missed Connections.

Because so much of life is being in the right place at the right time, and having the right thing to say to the drop-dead gorgeous person whose eyes locked with yours as you were both stopped at the stoplight or who flashed you a smile while checking out at Trader Joe’s — or pumping gas right in front of you. A split-second differential, a momentary cat’s-got-your-tongue thing and you’ve got yourself a missed opportunity of finding true love and happiness for ever after — or at the very least, a date. Who doesn’t want a second chance? That’s why new sites like RightPlaceRightTime.com and kizmeet.com are popping up.

So for days after the “gas station incident,” I scrolled though MC, hoping to find a posting. There never was one, but in reading so many — some funny, some poignant — I realized that we’re all searching for the same thing: connection.

But beyond that, what a lovely fantasy to think that, for a very brief period, someone noticed you as you went about your life. Not only noticed you but felt that there was some sort of a spark there, enough for him to post his feelings for the world to see.

I have to admit that there’s a part of me that wouldn’t mind being missed that way. But I never really thought it would happen.
Until it did.

Despite being a somewhat shy child, I’m not what you would call a demure woman. I often talk to strangers. It’s the flirty side of me, but I don’t just talk to men. Women, children, couples and dogs aren’t safe, either. So when Mary and I sidled up to a table with three guys and a gal at Mark Pitta and Friend’s Comedy Night at 142 Throckmorton Theatre, I started chatting with them until Pitta got onstage.
The next day while scrolling through Missed Connections, I saw a headline that struck a chord: “Funny blonde at Comedy Night.”

“Hey, I was there!” I said to myself. “I wonder who she is?”
As I read the posting, I realized he was talking about me!

“You and your friend really made me laugh, more than the comedians,” the posting said.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to chat with you after the show. If you see this, lol, drop me a line.”

I wondered which of the guys felt the spark. I strained to remember if any of them were attractive.
So, of course, I wrote back, and Mr. MC and I started a flirty e-mail exchange in which we slowly started to reveal ourselves. It seemed as if we had things in common.

Then, after a few days, something pretty strange started to happen. A little spring in my step, a silly smirk on my face, a desire to incessantly check my e-mail. I imagined meeting Mr. MC and really clicking. And thus, the fantasy-building began. Or, as I like to think of it, Imagination Gone Wild!

Candlelit nights with home-cooked meals and dancing; Saturdays spent kayaking, biking and hiking; lazy Sunday mornings filled with crosswords, coffee, snuggling and, well ...

After a flurry of e-mails, it was time to meet. Mr. MC asked me to meet over coffee, it was my weekend with my kid and his soccer games. I invited him for a glass of wine, he was heading out of town for business. He asked me to go for a hike, I was helping a friend move. I asked him to join me on a bike ride, he was best man in a wedding.

Weeks went by, and we had done nothing more than e-mail and chat on the phone. How hard could it possibly be for two people to get together?

“Maybe he’s married,” Mary observed as I told her my tale of desire and frustration.
“Married?” I fumed. “That just can’t be ... or can it?”

But before I even got to ask him that, I got the e-mail I’d been waiting for — one with an actual destination, date and a time to meet that worked for both of us. I’d like to say I got excited, but this is how it read:
“Hey! Well, I think we can finally make this happen, lol! A bunch of my buddies and I are going to crowd the bar at the Silver Peso Friday 5ish and be the frat boys we really are by getting blasted and getting rowdy. Come join the party!”

Frat boys? Blasted? Rowdy? I didn’t even like frat boys in college, so I certainly didn’t want any part of them in my 40s. And being in a bar at happy hour with a bunch of drunk rowdy men means only one thing for a woman, no matter what her age: disaster.

The fantasy I’d been building left my head just as quickly as I imagined Mr. MC and his friends would be puking in the Silver Peso bathroom.

In a way, I felt cheated, even though I know it was my fault for idealizing Mr. MC — imagining something real instead of what most likely would have been an awkward date or two followed by unreturned phone calls.

Recently, Sara and I were chatting about her love life (or lack thereof), and she went on and on about an attractive man she exchanged googly eyes with at the meat counter at Whole Foods.
“There was something about him, and the weird things was, people were looking at us like they could pick up the energy between us,” she glowed. “I wonder if he lives close by?”
“Well, you could always ...” and then I stopped myself.
“What?”
“Um, nevermind.”

I was, of course, about to send Sara to Missed Connections, as if it were some cosmic dating service, as if a lost moment could be recaptured and turned into true love. Maybe it can. But from now on I’m going to be in the moment — not fantasizing about the lost ones.

I don't give a damn 'bout my reputation

OK, so I'm a flirt, an unabashed, unapologetic flirt. With everyone generally, and lately with one guy specifically, Paul.

Paul seems to be around places that I am around, although that's more happenstance than planning. Paul's smart and insightful, and to go for the full-on cliche, he's tall and handsome.

And so ... why not go for it?

A little problem called reputation.

Not mine, his.

So if I went for it, it would, of course, be mine, too.

He's a flirt (duh!), and has had trysts with many women around these parts, single and (so I hear) not. It's easy to think "player," but he says he is genuinely looking for a woman who is genuine, grounded and emotionally aware. He's not finding too many of those in Marin.

OK, fine, believe him or not, but the question begs to be asked (because, you know, I'm curious that way): If a woman has numerous trysts in her search for The One (the genuine, grounded and emotionally aware one, as he should be), does that work against her, for her or who the hell cares?

My fave blog, Annie Dennison's Smart at Love, addressed that awhile back, asking:

"ls the idea of a woman's 'bad' sexual reputation so old-fashioned in this modern world that you reject it outright?

"Or are you conscious of, and concerned about, the way men perceive you as a sexual being?"

I don't mind being looked at as a sexual being — I am one, fergoodnesssake, and blessed to be one — but I know that women are held to a different standard (which is wrong, but that's how it is, still, today, go figure).

So I flirt publicly, but I tramp privately. I don't like the judgment, and the worst offenders of that aren't necessarily men, but women (or so my experience has been). Guess it's threatening or something.

And that's how it is with Paul — it will go no further than flirting because I choose not to. Because there's The Kid to consider, and because I'm still not living in the enlightened society in which I long to be living.

Would you choose to be with a man who has a sexual "reputation"?

Do you worry about your own, or you follow Joan Jett's advice in "Bad Reputation":

I don't give a damn 'bout my reputation
You're living in the past it's a new generation
A girl can do what she wants to do and that's
What I'm gonna do
An' I don't give a damn ' bout my bad reputation

And if you both have those reputations, do they cancel each other out?

What I learned from cheating

It doesn't make a difference if you're single or married. It's very likely that at one point in your life, you'll have to decide — once a cheater, always a cheater?

No one knows for sure the numbers of cheating spouses — some say as high as 60 percent to 70 percent — and no one even bothers to collect stats on how many people in so-called committed monogamous relationships are fooling around on the side.

It seems we can't get enough about the rich and famous who fall into temptation's way, even though it might make us a little nervous about our own love life ("If Hugh Grant can cheat on someone as pretty, smart and sexy as Elizabeth Hurley ...!)

I won't try to get into the "whys" of affairs. I'm just wondering if the "once, always" saying is true.

So I'll share my truth. A long time ago, I cheated on a man who loved me and whom I loved as well.

Here's what I learned — cheating is incredibly easy (this was, of course, way before the many electronic geegaws we now live with that make it easier to trace phone numbers, e-mails, text messages, etc., and thus get caught ... and also aid in the deception) But getting caught isn't the issue — just the ability to cheat is easy, and that surprised me. There are any number of ways to be tempted and to act on it.

And even though I knew it was wrong and I felt horrible about it, that didn't stop me — I was able to justify my actions (because we are absolute masters — mistresses? — of doing that).

I ended that relationship eventually, and he never knew of my deception. But I knew, and once I stripped away my justifications and rationalizations, I made the decision that I am not that person, that I don't ever want to be that person and that I would never cheat again. And I haven't. And I won't.

So when I hear a man tell me of past infidelities, do I trust that he will or won't do it again? I don't know. It's no easier or harder to trust than asking someone who hasn't ever cheated if he would. He may say no, he may say maybe, he may say, "I don't know," but there's no way to know for sure. Even following the advice in books like "Affair-Proof Your Marriage" aren't fool-proof (and may make you feel smugger than you should).

There is, however, this: How does he live his life? Is he an honest, ethical person, or does he live by the 'ends-justifies-the-means" belief system? Does he believe he's "entitled" or does he take responsibility for his actions and beliefs?

How you answer is not a guarantee. But you might see the man a little clearer (and perhaps yourself)..

Once a cheater, always a cheater? Maybe, maybe not. What do you think?

Sending out an SOS

Halfway through my bike ride along the Tiburon loop this morning, my handlebars decided to nearly break free, taking a good portion of the brakes with them.

I struggled with that for as long as I could, but by the time I reached the Cove shopping center, I realized the only way to get home was to be rescued.

I called around until I found someone to come get me, but it got me thinking about "being rescued" — a concept women have been brought up with from the first readings of a fairy tale in which the (always) handsome prince arrives on his steadfast steed to whisk her away from trouble.

Ah, if life were truly that way.

Yet, even as fortysomething women in this post-feminist world, where we have our own careers, homes, IRAs, etc., there's often a feeling that men need to rescue us from, if not giving up the daily work grind, then at the very least certain tasks.

I felt the full force of that when Rob and I split. Suddenly, everything started falling apart — the kitchen grinder died; the bathroom faucets leaked; the relatively new DVD player decided it would only have sound, no picture; the toilet handle broke; weeds began to overrun the yard, the gutters were clogged. Rob always had taken care of those "blue" jobs while I handled the "pink."

Some things I learned how to do — you should have seen me fix the faucet leak — but sometimes I felt like, where is my prince to rescue me from all this crap that I don't know how to do and don't want to know, either ... without having to pay him $80 an hour (boy, did I pick the wrong profession!)

I am very confident and successful in my career and life, but I was beginning to feel rather helpless.

I found myself striking bargains with my male friends — "I’ll make you a fab dinner and that flourless chocolate cake if you ..." Sometimes they had ideas of their own for trades, but most were happy to help — it's such a "guy" thing.

But I don't like the feeling of having to be rescued.

Does it bother you to be rescued?

For guys, do you like it when a woman asks for help, or do you see her as weak?

And do you think it's too late for me to start my plumbing career?

Don't zits mean I'm youthful?

An odd thing happened this morning when I looked in the mirror, still half asleep and desperate for that first sip of coffee.

Overnight, a portion of my face had decided to revisit puberty, presenting me with an outrageous zit on my forehead.

Great — the perfect accessory for the outfit I'd picked out for my date tomorrow night.

And just like a high-schooler, I'll be fretting about it all day and tomorrow. (Thank god I have a teenager around, so there's always a ready supply of Clearasil and Oxy-10.)

It's amazing how certain things can bring us right back to the angst of adolescence.

Mostly, though, this fortysomething body is getting glimpses of the future. It ain't pretty, either. I'm more forgetful than ever, I often wake up with aches and stiffness (without even having the pleasure of doing something pleasurable to create those conditions ) and let's not forget the wrinkling and sagging in places that I didn't even know could wrinkle and sag.

But would I want to go back in time, back to my youth? Certainly not my teen years — once was enough! I had some wonderful times in my 20s and 30s, but they had their challenges, too. Truth be told, I like myself so much better now (except, of course, the aforementioned sagging, wrinkling, brain lapses and so on).

People often say they'd like to do that, but always with "knowing what I know now." I think we'd still make mistakes, just different ones.

Would you want to go back in time, 5, 10, 20 years? Why?
Would it be to relive your life as it was, or would you want an entirely different life?

Love isn't always blind

You meet someone you like. He's smart, kind, loving, giving, funny, cute, etc.

You see each other a while and then get to the point at which you're going to take it to the next level. One day, after dinner or a movie or a hike, the two of you head to his place.

You're turned on, he's turned on, his light gets turned on and then ...

well, and then you're face to face with how he lives, and it isn't always pretty.

A friend forwarded me a NY Times article about what some dates’ homes reveal about them, "It's not you, it's your apartment" — http://www.nytimes.com/2007/03/29/garden/29breakers.html?_r=1&ei=5087%0A&em=&en=8fe5465208e08c14&ex=1175313600&adxnnl=1&oref=slogin&adxnnlx=1175551215-/8TvDoMPWCxMa7udpj3t4A

It's pretty funny, and, I suppose to a certain extent, true. But I can't say a guy's home would be a deal-breaker — unless it was something out of "Silence of the Lambs" perhaps. But you can learn a lot about a person by observing what's around him — people, doodads in his office and the place he calls home.

When I met Rob, it was love at first sight. No, not of him, but of his San Francisco flat — all masculine and leathery — but specifically his bed sheets. They weren't flowery things he took from his mother or some plaid pattern left over from his college dorm days. They were cream, gray and black dotted designer sheets — nicer than mine! Since we're divorced, you can pretty much gather he lost his good sense of taste somewhere along the line ...

Then I began dating. Most of my beaus gravitated over to my place, but not all.

Mark's house was palatial — a five-bedroom spread in Tiburon with a pool and a hot tub and a wine cellar and a gourmet kitchen that was bigger than my entire home. But it was so immaculate, so sterile, it looked as if were ready-made for a H&G or Pottery Barn catalog photo shoot and not a place where you'd put your feet up on the coffee table or tucked under you as you curled up on the couch. It looked as if no one actually lived in it. It made me nervous, and I felt relieved when that brief fling was over.

Ryan's Sausalito house was small and nondescript but with an amazing view — outside. A somewhat geeky dot-commer, he barely had any furniture at all, but whatever he did have was frayed and stained and just background for all his computers and multi-wired techy stuff.

Dan, on the verge of buying into a TIC in San Francisco, had a couch, a table, a bed, a huge widescreen TV and about 50 candleholders. Oh yes, and a kitchen table that once or twice came in very handy. But I was always fearful the place would go up in flames while we were occupied.

Then I met Sean. The first time I walked into Sean's condo — as excited as I was to be there — I had to take a deep breath.

His carpet was either a throwback to some really bad era I wanted no part of, or it was so hip and on-the-cusp of trendy that no one had quite yet figured out that it was the new black — it's a spring-lime greenish monstrosity.

"That's an interesting color," I noted with, I'm sure, no hint of emotion in my voice.

"So I've been told."

Well at least his other female friends had good taste.

But I felt the need to probe further — as in, did he pick it when he moved in, or was it an "as is" situation.

"So did they install it when you moved in, or ...?"

"No, it was here."

Hmm, still, shouldn't he have demanded it be replaced?

"You're lucky your couch has enough green in it to work well with it, otherwise ..."

"Oh, I bought the couch to match it."

Now I was really starting to sweat.

"Yeah," he continued, "I needed a lot of help finding one because I'm colorblind."

Colorblind? I stopped sweating immediately until I was ready to sweat for all the right reasons.

If the person you were hot for lived like something out of a ruffly pink-satin-pillowed Harlequin romance novel or a heavy metal-postered college dorm, deal breaker or what?

And if you ever moved in together, what goes, what stays?

The eye of the beholder

This weekend, I left the relative safety of Marin and entered into the "Twilight Zone," well, the episode in which a woman goes into cosmetic surgery for the 11th time to become "beautiful." When her face bandages are unwrapped, she is — to us, but not the world she lives in, a world of pig-faced people.

That brilliant episode was called “The Eye of the Beholder," and I was face to face with what beauty is — and isn't — and the very personal truth of that title this weekend.

I was, of all interesting places to be, at the Tattoo Body Art Expo at the Cow Palace ("No hassles, no weapons" is how it's promoted. I'm down with that!) My friend Richard dragged me there — we both are intrigued by tats, he slightly more than I, and piercings, me slightly more than he, and the culture around them.

Tattoos, in case you haven't noticed, are no longer the domain of sailors and women of "ill repute," whatever that is. Teens have them, celebs have them, Starbucks baristas have them — even Marin soccer moms have them (as well as pierced belly buttons and nether regions, too).

And then ... and then there were the people at the Tattoo Expo. I'll be honest — for the majority of them, their tats aren't some rebellious grasping onto a fast-fading youth as you hit 40 or a teenage rite-of-passage. It's serious. It's a lifestyle and, thus, has its own standards of beauty.

And some of it truly is beautiful. The artistry of tattoos can be amazing. But — and this is a big but — not all. Certainly not the tribal patterns that covered a man's entire head and most of his face, and especially not the big tattoos of Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow on one man's leg and another man's chest — no matter how much you think the "Pirates of the Caribbean" movies were the best things you've ever seen and you idolize Depp or Sparrow or what they stand for. Sorry. I like the roses and hearts and Japanese koi and Maori-like armband tats but ...

And I'm not even going to get into the whole body modification thing, with ears so heavy and stretched out with metal that they drop like Dumbo's and horns (!!!) implanted into foreheads — please tell me, where in the world do you work when you look like that?

But that is my version of beauty, not theirs.

One of the most unsettling things I observed, though, was how so many of the people there were really heavy. Some, just plain obese. I don't want to sound politically incorrect, but I found a certain irony in spending hundreds — thousands? — of dollars to adorn a body in fanciful colors and patterns — a walking artwork, actually — when the "canvas" itself isn't shown the same care, love and respect. Again, my version of beauty.

Beauty is, of course, something every fortysomething woman struggles with. We see the crows nest, the laugh lines, the sagging and spotting that comes with our age, and many of us run right to cosmetic surgeons to book our Botox, nip-and-tuck and collagen appointments while the rest of us slather on Vitamin C creams, Retinol and serums that we hope will slow life's ravages down while we rev up our spinning classes.

What is beauty? I know we don't all agree on what it looks like, but I would hope, on a personal level, it's looking at ourselves in the mirror and — wrinkled, heavy, tattooed, pierced, Botoxed or not — saying, "Yeah, I like that. I look and feel beautiful."

What is beauty for you?
Do you look in the mirror and see beauty?
And, honestly — Jack Sparrow???

When honesty meets hottie

Honesty, trust, communication. Hallmarks of a healthy relationship, right?
But just how honest should you be with your lover?
Of course you have to be honest about the important stuff — especially if it puts the other person at risk, like sexual matters.
But should you tell your sweetie that you have the hots for his friends?

In the 15 years Rob and I were married, I can’t say we ever talked about that. Well, he knew I had a thing for George Clooney. He just never knew that I thought our mutual friend Evan was oh-so-doable, or that my girlfriend Rachel’s husband appeared in at least one of my sexual fantasies. Of course, I didn’t know which of my friends Rob lusted after, either.

But after Rob and I divorced and I started dating, I was thrust into a whole new world of honesty.
Sean, the single dad I see from time to time, and I had been dating each other for about two months when Lisa threw a big party.

It seemed the perfect time to introduce him to my friends.

It was a wonderful party, full of laughter and conversation and dancing, and everyone loved Sean.
The feeling was mutual, but in a warped way.

“So, what did you think of my girlfriends?” I purred to Sean later that night as we snuggled in my bed.
“Your friends are great and they’re so hot, but, oh my god, the lips on Sara ...”

And then for what seemed like the rest of the night, Sean went on and on and on about Sara, her lips, where he’d want to put them and other assorted activities he’d like to pursue with her.

I’d like to say all that steamy pillow talk was a turn-on, but it was beginning to feel a little weird.
I started off the night thinking, “Love me, love my girlfriends,” but it was ending up more like, “Love me, love my girlfriends, but love me more!”
But Sean wasn’t the first of my beaus to lust after my girlfriends.

I had been seeing Ryan, a kinda geeky 48-year-old Sausalito dot-commer who made me laugh, for about a month. Jennifer and I were hiking around the Headlands one Saturday afternoon and thought we’d stop by Paradise Bay to get a bite and a beer. Ryan happens to live close by.

“Hey,” Jennifer said. “Didn’t you say Ryan lives around here? Why don’t you call him and ask him to join us? I’d love to meet him. Maybe he has a cute friend.”

I wasn’t so sure that it was a good thing. Although I liked Ryan a lot, there were a few red flags. I just wasn’t sure how long we were going to last. But even more important that that, he was the first “relationship” I had since my divorce, and I was nervous. None of my friends knew me with any other man beside Rob. What if Jennifer or my other friends didn’t like him? It never even occurred to me that not only would he like all my girlfriends, but that he wanted to sleep with any one or all of them, preferably a few at a time, with or without me.

That wasn’t the reason I dumped him, but within a month, he was gone.

So when Sean shared his fantasy about Sara, I knew just what to do. I called Ali, my happily married friend who moved to Seattle just as my marriage busted open. Hundreds of miles away from the midlife dramas occurring here in Marin, she was the voice of reason.

“Oh my! How serious do you think he is?”
“Well, he’s been nothing but upfront and honest with me since we met. Is this the downside of honesty?”
“Do you think it’s better that he tells you his fantasy, or would you rather he keep it secret?”
“I guess I’d rather know. I mean, I think I’d pick up on the lust-vibe whenever Sara, he and I are together, and then I’d get all weirded out.”
“Exactly.”

I wondered if I was the only one this was happening to. So the next time my friends and I gathered for a gals’ night , I put it out there.

“If you lusted after one of your beau’s friends, would you tell him? If he lusted after one of us, would you want to know?”

It was a resounding no on both, with a cautionary tale. Lisa’s hubby had once teased her about what man she’d want to stray with if she could, so she told him about a certain bartender she thought was hunky. Not only did it ruin their date night, but he hauled her off to couples counseling.
So much for honesty.

And yet, it’s obvious people are lusting after others like crazy, just quietly. I read in one silly woman’s magazine that 63 percent of men said they’d consider having sex with another woman if their partner gave them permission. And with about half of married couples cheating on each other — and a certain percentage of men raising children they think they fathered but didn’t, according to Louann Brizendine’s “The Female Brain” — I’m wondering if anyone is honest about anything anymore.

It made me think of all the flak President Jimmy Carter got after he blurted out in Playboy that he had lust in his heart. At least he was honest, although I sure hope he and Rosalynn had a little chat before it hit the newsstands (“Wow, that Juanita Kreps sure is a hottie, wouldn’t you say, Ros?”) That had to have been a better talk than the one President Bill Clinton and Hillary had!

So in the interest of honesty, I decided to send Sean an e-mail.
“I believe people come into your life for a reason. Sometimes it’s for a lifetime, sometimes it’s for a brief time, sometimes they are conduits to connect you to someone else. Maybe we met so that I could introduce you to Sara. I suppose it’s time for you to indulge yourself in your fantasy, and maybe you will one day help me out with one of mine. Here’s her cell number.”

The phone call came within an hour.
I could barely make out what he was saying, though, because he was laughing so hard.
“Of all your e-mails to me, that one ... that was classic!”

“Hmm, I’m happy you find such joy and entertainment in my angst. But I’m serious, you know.”
“Really? You really expect that I’m going to call Sara up and say, what? ‘Hi Sara. This may seem a bit bizarre but Kat gave me your cell because she thinks you and I should hook up because I told her I think you’re so hot and we would have unbelievable sex.’ Something like that?”

I could feel his smirk over the phone. “You’re mocking me,” I said, a bit miffed.
“Kat, just because I have a fantasy doesn’t mean I’m going to act on it, you know. We’ve both talked about how much we value honesty. If you want communication, it has to be OK to talk about the uncomfortable stuff, too. Right?”

I had to agreed; He was right. I do want honesty and communication, not only with my lover but with my friends. Isn’t that what everyone wants? And if that meant I felt some pangs of jealousy, that would be open to discussion as well.

So, now I have honesty and a rather unexpected something else. Turns out evoking the image of Sara’s plump lips is one of the best aphrodisiacs I’ve got going with Sean!

— Is honesty the best policy, even if your your lover/spouse tells you who turns him on?
— Do you get upset or jealous if he looks at other women with lust?
— And, if get upset by that and tell him to stop, do you think that he still has those thoughts/fantasies, but then won;'t feel safe in sharing things with you? In other words, do you shut off honest communication?