The Question
Recently, as a favour to an unhappily married friend, I helped him woo another unhappily married person by delivering a romantic gift consisting of a CD, a single red rose, a compass and a poem he'd written her.
I didn't think too much about it, except that it seemed sort of touching and charming. But when I told my wife, she was furious at me and asked if I were the type who thought cheating was fun and good.
Of course I felt a slight tremor of sleaze. But I figured it was mostly their business. Am I as morally reprehensible as she's trying to make me feel?
THE ANSWER
Musing long and hard upon this question, as I always do, scratching my coconut, stroking my goatee, sitting on park benches and staring off into space with a parking-lot-attendant stare, I found myself focusing more and more on one anomalous detail: the compass.
"Why a compass?" I wondered. When it finally hit me, I chuckled quietly to myself, shook my head and said: "Ah, men. We slay me."
Obviously the compass came with a note that said something like: "Carry this with you always, my darling, so that no matter where life's journey may take you, your heart will find its way back to mine."
Which is ... I mean, it's just so, so ... [columnist, overcome by emotion, whips out handkerchief, dabs tear from eye]... touching.
You know, it never ceases to amuse me how men undergo this magical transformation when they're trying to get some. Suddenly, guys who normally sit in a stupor in front of their TV sets become poets, seekers, troubadours of the soul. They muse upon the loftiest questions of the human condition. They soar above the quotidian on wings of faux-philosophical B.S.
Perfectly captured, I thought, in the movie Wedding Crashers, when Owen Wilson says to a sexy bridesmaid: "People say we only use 10 per cent of our brains. I say we only use 10 per cent of our hearts."
Hilarious. Exactly the type of pseudo-romantic horse-puckey you'd feed a bridesmaid on a moonlit beach, the hotel you're trying to steer her toward looming in the background.
And it is charming, in a way - if the guy's single. If he's married? Less so, in my view.
Yes, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, gentlemen, but if you're married and "wooing" a woman who's not your wife, you're not a poet or seeker or troubadour.
You're a schnauzer. You're a boxer. You're a Great Dane.
A dee-oh-double-gee, in other words, and even if you rise up on your hind legs with a rose in one paw and compass in the other to deliver a poignant speech about life's journey and the sweet fragrance of your desire, all I hear is: "Woof, woof! Arf! Ruff! Ruff! Woof!"
Accompanied by the sound of a tail thumping on the floor.
I'm afraid being "unhappily married" is no excuse, either. You can't have your bone and eat it too. The rules here are simple: If you're tired of the person you're with and you want someone else, you first have to break up with the person you're with before you go after the other one.
I figured that out at age 19. True, it took another 10 years to fully implement this policy, and to the girls I dated in my 20s I can only say: "I'm sorry, my dears, you were all so lovely, the spirit was willing but the flesh was - arf! Woof, woof! Arf!"
Anyway, lack of moral fibre in his kibble is your friend's problem, not yours. What possessed you to get involved, delivery boy? What made you go all UPS? You must cease and desist being an "affair enabler" immediately. It's all downside and no upside. You have enraged your wife; if the woman's husband goes on a rampage he might kill you, too, and you don't even get any hot, naughty sex out of it.
And I think your wife's quite right: All this skulduggery makes it look like you endorse adultery. Perhaps it titillates you to play Lothario-by-proxy? Perhaps you enjoy the drama just a little, hmmm?
But it's a dangerous game and you could get your paws burned. Next thing you know you're giving your secretary a compass at the office Christmas party because you're her "Secret Santa," and shortly after that you find yourself in one of those hotels with a neon sign with one letter shorted out (HOT- zzzt-L, HOT- zzzt-L), wondering how it all went pear-shaped.
Nip that in the butt, bud - I mean the bud, dog. First convince yourself, then your wife, that it is in fact fidelity you find fun and charming and exciting, and that you're happy you're not out there with all the tomcats and pariah dogs. (And if you don't believe it, what are you doing in this relationship?)
Frequently and loudly pooh-pooh adultery and adulterers in her presence. (Newspaper: "Love Triangle Culminates In Murder-Suicide." You: "These things always end in tears, don't they?") Court her. Woo her. Give her a compass, and a red rose. Show her that after however long you've been with her, she is still the one you're trying to impress.
Do this and I predict you'll be out of the doghouse and curled up in a basket in front of the fire in no time.
David Eddie is a screenwriter and the author of Chump Change and Housebroken: Confessions of a Stay-at-Home Dad.
I've made a huge mistake
Have you created any damage that needs controlling? Send your dilemmas to damage@globeandmail.com, and include your hometown and a daytime contact number so we can follow up with any queries.