by Lisa Daily
Problem solved. Apologize to your friend for your drunken behavior, and next time, stick to your own prospects.
xxLisa
Dear Lisa,
I seem to be stuck in a bad pattern. All the relationships I’ve had in life have ended in the same way. I always end up getting cheated on and left time and time again. Apparently women are lying when they say they want a nice guy to spend their life with (ask my ex-wife.) So, what am I doing wrong? Or am I just doomed?
Frustrated Guy
Dear Frustrated,
There’s an old saying that goes like this: “If you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you always got.”
Sure, maybe all the women you’ve dated were lying when they said they just wanted a nice guy to spend their lives with, but remember darling, the common denominator in all of your failed relationships is you.
Now, I’m not saying you’re to blame for all that has gone wrong in your relationships. What I am saying, however, is that you need to take a look at your own behavior before you assume you’re just some sort of tortured, innocent, tramp-magnet.
Generally people who are continually victimized in this way have three things in common: low self-esteem, low expectations and a tendency to confuse being “nice” with being a doormat.
While I can’t help you with your self-esteem issues in one short column, I can take a stab at helping you tackle your relationship expectations and doormat-esque tendencies.
First, you need to make a conscious decision that you are worthy of a great relationship, and that cheating is not acceptable. Every day, repeat to yourself: “I deserve a great relationship, and I’m not going to settle for less.” Sure, you’ll feel a little doofy for talking to yourself at first, but eventually the good vibe will start to sink in.
Next, I want you to eliminate any previous cheaters from your dating pool. That means, if they’ve ever cheated in a serious relationship (or semi-serious relationship) they don’t get a second date with you. The most accurate predictor of future behavior is past behavior. Never assume that true love, breakfast in bed, or any other factor will keep a chronic cheater from straying on you. The fact is, if they’ve cheated on others, they’re extremely likely to cheat on you. Take yourself out of the mix, and let the wanderers spread their misery on somebody else.
Finally, don’t confuse being nice with being a doormat. Most women do truly want to be with a nice guy. Here’s the kicker though, we want to be with a nice guy we can respect. If you let people know they can walk all over you, they will. What does that mean in practical terms? Well it means you should be nice, but only to a point. Frequently, people who are always nice to everybody else tend to neglect their own needs, and relationships only work when there is a fairly equal distribution of power. If you give away all of your power, the relationship will become dreadfully out of whack and fall apart. You deserve to have your needs met too.
The right girl won’t stay with you because you give her everything she wants. She’ll stay because she loves you, and because you’re a great guy.
xxLisa
Chapter 12: How to deal with your Fifteen Minutes of Shame
A few years ago I was researching my first novel, Fifteen Minutes of Shame, a romantic comedy that follows a TV dating expert who finds out her husband is cheating on her - live on national TV.
It got me thinking about breakups and cheating and being the subject of gossip, and every woman I’ve ever met or advised on how to get through the miserable weeks and months after your life is torn to shreds by a person you loved.
They do the cheating, but somehow we’re the ones who end up feeling humiliated.
Maybe your husband fathered a child with another woman. Maybe you’ve just learned that the man you’re in love has been sleeping with someone else. Maybe your partner just got busted in a prostitution ring.
It’s the most embarrassing situation of your life, and suddenly it feels like everybody knows about it. How do you hold your head up high, and have the guts to go out in public again - whether you’re facing your co-workers, the members of your church, or the women in your book club - knowing that every person there you is talking about YOU?
How to get over your Fifteen Minutes of Shame
Don’t Carry Shame That Doesn’t Belong to You
You’re not the one who cheated, who betrayed someone, who blew up your relationship. You have no reason to be ashamed, what he did was not a failure on your part. He is to blame, and he owns the shame around this. Not you. Don’t carry his crap on your shoulders.
Retreat to a safe place where you can catch your breath
Stay with a friend, or at a hotel, or with family — whatever makes you feel safe and protected. Stay there for a few days or a week, as long as you can. The longer you rest now, the faster you’ll be able to heal.
Get a disaster buddy
Make sure that you are supported by a close friend or therapist around the clock as you work through your emotions in the first few days.
Pamper your body and feed your soul
Get a massage or a pedicure, take long walks, spend time reading in the park, go to church, go to counseling, visit an art museum or listen to a jazz band. Take care of every part of yourself, and help yourself heal. Do things that you love, and replenish your soul.
No Comment
Gossip feeds on details. Talk to your therapist and your closest friends, but mum’s the word for everybody else.
I know this has been a rough experience, but I’m also sure that you’ve learned a lot about yourself through the entire process.
You are intuitive, because you figured out his secret.
You are strong, because you confronted him when he betrayed you.
You are powerful, because you stood up for yourself.
You are resilient, because after all this, you’re still here, and you’re stronger than you were before.
You will be happy again, trust me.
Hugs,
Lisa
If you need more information on anything in this book, please feel free to visit my website at www.LisaDaily.com
And, if you’d like to receive my free and fabulous Stop Getting Dumped! dating tips newsletter, you can sign up here
If you have questions, comments or stories about Is He Cheating, please feel free to contact me.
A quick favor?
Your reviews, comments and ratings on Amazon about this book are greatly appreciated. If Is He Cheating helped you, you can leave a review by clicking here or visiting its Amazon page when you’re on your computer or iPad.
You’ll also have the chance to rate this book and share your rating with your girlfriends on Twitter and Facebook when you turn to the last page. I read every single review, and love to hear what my readers have to say. If you have just a moment, I’d be grateful for your time.
Hugs! Lisa
About Lisa
Lisa Daily is the international bestselling author of three dating advice books, three novels, and appears every week on the hit nationally-syndicated morning TV show DAYTIME. She’s a dating coach, speaker, and popular media guest, and has done more than 2000 interviews on TV and radio shows, including E!, MTV Live, and Entertainment Tonight, as well as top UK morning show, This Morning and has been quoted everywhere from Glamour, Cosmopolitan and Hello to the New York Times and the Washington Post. Lisa lives in Sarasota, Florida and writes from the beach. Get Lisa’s 5 Secrets to Make the Guys Go Gaga here.
Want to read more books by Lisa Daily?
DATING ADVICE BOOKS
Stop Getting Dumped!
All you need to know to make men fall madly in love with you an marry “The One” in 3 years or less.
How to Date Like a Grown-Up
Everything you need to know to get out there, get lucky, or even get married in your 40s, 50s and beyond.
Is He Cheating? How to find out right now if he is cheating or not, why he does it, and what you need to do next<
br />
FICTION
Fifteen Minutes of Shame
Beauty
Being Audrey Hepburn (coming 2013)
An Excerpt from
Fifteen Minutes of Shame
A novel by Lisa Daily
Chapter 1
“I’m utterly humiliated.”
I hiss this to my best friend Jules, as I squat behind the smelly dumpster of a Gas-N-Go, trying to sneak a glimpse of my husband without getting caught.
“Damn.”
He glances in the general direction of the dumpster and I panic. I nearly fall over backwards and accidentally drop my cell phone into a murky puddle. It hasn’t rained in weeks, and I fear toxic waste, or worse, old convenience store hot-dog water as I fish out my phone and wipe it off on my sweatpants. It leaves a sort of greenish smear, and I don’t even want to imagine what it could be.
Last week I was on national television, wearing a cute little non-mommy outfit and my favorite pair of Christian Louboutins, talking about how every woman deserves a fabulous life, and how they too can snag the man of their dreams. This week I’m crouching in filth, looking a lot like a homeless person because I forgot it was my turn to drive carpool this morning and I rushed out of the house wearing dirty sweatpants, the “Who’s Your Daddy?” t-shirt I slept in and a pair of sparkly pink flip-flops. I can’t remember brushing my hair. Or my teeth.
“Are you there?” I whisper to Jules, “sorry, I dropped the phone.”
“What on this earth are you doin’?” she asks, in that honey-dipped drawl all men melt for. Jules is a flesh and blood, eighth-generation Southern belle. She hasn’t left the house without earrings since puberty. Any two-hour car ride with her includes a picnic basket fully stocked with ham biscuits. She’s always polite, and she’s always enviable. Jules would never be caught squatting behind a dumpster spying on her husband in her pajamas.
The truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing.
“He’s supposed to be in Atlanta.” I can feel myself rambling, “I packed his suitcase myself.”
“Are you absolutely sure it’s him?” Jules responds gently, “maybe it’s just someone who looks a lot like him.”
“You mean like an evil twin?” I crack, “no, I saw him straight on. It’s Will.”
Something is definitely up. Will exits the store carrying a small paper bag. He looks both ways before stepping off the curb and then opens the door of his silver SUV and slides into the driver’s seat. What’s in the bag? I wonder. Condoms? A microwave burrito?
“Maybe he’s taking a later flight,” Jules offered.
“Maybe.” I don’t think so. We live in Sarasota, a small city with a small airport. Usually the first flight is the last flight. Plus, Will does this Atlanta trip at least once a week for a liquor client based in Georgia. His flight leaves at eight-thirty-seven in the morning and he usually makes it home the next morning around the same time.
“Damn.” I can’t decide if I should hop back in my car and follow him to see where he’s going, or throw myself in front of his car so he knows he’s been busted. I panic and the moment passes. He drives off, and I stand, frozen in my puddle of muck until his car passes the intersection. My big opportunity to catch him the act of whatever’s keeping him from Atlanta has vanished. I feel like a jerk, but I don’t know if I could stomach whatever I might learn.
Normally, Will is not the kind of husband you worry about. He’s a blue-suit-wearing/sex-on-Friday/baseball-on-Saturday kind of guy. But my imagination starts churning and I envision all sorts of sinister possibilities: He’s having an affair. He’s an undercover agent for the CIA. He’s lost his biggest client and he’s too chicken-shit to tell me. I feel the early tinglings of panic.
“Or,” says Jules, “maybe his trip just got cancelled.” Leave it to Jules to be rational. “Why don’t you call him?”
Why don’t I call him? Genius! Jules is a genius! I’ll just call him and he’ll explain everything and we’ll laugh about the whole thing. I hang up with Jules and speed-dial Will. No answer. Crap.
His phone clicks over to voicemail immediately, which means the damned thing isn’t even turned on.
I get back into my car, which is parked high-speed-chase-style behind the dumpster. (Okay, so I wasn’t exactly focused on my parallel parking skills this morning when I swerved into the Gas-N-Go.) I was driving home after dropping off our carpool kids at school and almost drove over the median when I saw Will’s car pull into the parking lot.
As I head home, I try to clear my mind and think rationally. I take a deep breath and try to figure out how I’ve gone from “happily ever after” to panicking that my husband is an international terrorist/philanderer/pathological liar within the space of a few minutes.
It’s probably nothing. Crap, it’s definitely something.
I pull into our gated community, slowing down so that the scanner can read the barcode on the side of my gas-guzzling mommymobile. I inch forward until the nose of my car is just inches from the flimsy stick otherwise known as the “gate” designed to keep all manner of undesirables out of my neighborhood. What’s funny is that where I live in Florida, nearly all of the communities are gated communities. I’m not sure that we even have “undesirables.” If we do, knowing my neighbors, they’re special ordered from Barney’s. If you travel down any semi-main road here you’ll see guard shacks and electric gates every few miles. The parking lots at Whole Foods, Nuovo, and Siesta Beach are all populated with cars bearing the telltale barcode sticker on the rear window.
Sometimes, I can hardly believe I live here. Overnight, I went from a single-girl shoebox of an apartment, (apropos, I think, since my most prized possessions were primarily shoes) where I felt like I’d hit the jackpot if I was lucky enough to get an up-close parking space, or an open lounge chair at the pool, straight to suburbia (Do Not Pass Go) where my wedding ring and barcode sticker grant me an all-access pass to the gated kingdom of Botox moms.
And although I never had trouble fitting in, even after three years, I still kind of feel like I really don’t really belong here.
I hit redial on my phone. Will’s voicemail clicks on. Again. The gate is stuck. Again. The guard is busy with the line of cars in the visitor’s lane and doesn’t look up from his clipboard. He waves three cars through, barely glancing up. Apparently, all you need is a pizza or a lawnmower to gain entrance to this gated haven in suburbia. The front of my car is now practically touching the gate. It’s not moving. I roll down the window and wait patiently because I don’t want to be one of “those” women – who wave their manicured nails out the window for the backhanded salute, while they lean on the horn with their elbows, demanding priority service.
I try to catch the guard’s eye, hoping a little smile and a wave will do the trick.
“That lane is for residents only”, he shouts to me over the sound of a muffler-deficient station wagon filled with mops and Brazilian housekeepers.
“I am a resident.” I shout back, smiling purposefully. “The gate is not working today.” He rolls his eyes at me. Will and I have lived here for the entire three years we’ve been married. I go through this gate about six times a day. I call the guard shack about twice a day to add our friends, the bug man, the pool guy to “the list.” The man with the clipboard is Frank. He has two kids, and works the day shift at the North gate. He looks at me as though he has never seen me before.
“You need a sticker,” he says authoritatively.
“I have a sticker. Can you please just raise the gate? I’m really in a hurry,” I plead. All of a sudden, I’m flashing back to the scene from that old movie Trading Places where Dan Ackroyd has just gotten out of jail, and when he gets to his house, not only will his key not work in the lock, but his butler pretends he’s never seen him before. OhMyGod, I’m going to have to move in with a hooker.
“You need a sticker,” he says again, pressing the magic button inside the guard shack.
Access at last. I peel through the g
ate, squealing the tires as I turn onto my street, popping my car into the garage like a pinball going down the chute for the last time. A wave of dread and denial washes over me like sewage.
Crap. Crap. Crap. Get it together. Get it together. Get it together.
Let’s review, okay? What did I really see?
Generally, I try not to be the overreacting type. I am in fact, a quite rational, thirty-one year old author and stepmother of two kids, Lilly and Aidan. Obviously, the Prince Charming I’d envisioned from the time I was eight years old was not exactly a divorced guy with two kids. But the kids I once thought would be a burden have turned out to be the center of my life.
Will is thirty-six, was formerly married to a formerly sane beauty queen (Miss Arkansas, if you must know) and we, the two of us, have custody of his kids, children I consider to be the most amazing six and eight-year-old on the planet. (Of course, I’m crazy about them, so I may be a little biased.)
Will and I have been married three years. We met when I was on tour for my first book, Secrets to Make the Guys Go Gaga and he was the PR guy who landed me a spot on Soap Talk. (Don’t laugh, it’s a real show.) After years of writing toothpaste jingles, and doling out dating advice to my girlfriends over margaritas, I figured a dating book was a good start to the dream I’d always had about becoming a “real” writer, not just someone who made a living spinning canned meat and golf spikes to the American public.