It is my belief that men are not meant to be monogamous. Tangentially, it is also my belief that we as women married to these men should show our gratitude. (I warned you!)
Monogamy being unnatural to men is not that original of a concept, as there exists countless anthropological studies to support this. But my personal theory has zero to do with research. (That would require too much scientific reading on my part.) Instead, my hypothesis stems, literally, from the hair on my chin.
Let me back up a little. Whenever a change occurs in my body, I try to figure out why. Sometimes I am able to tie things back to a recently-added medicine or supplement (hello, countless side effects) or to a change in diet (goodbye gluten, sugar, and dairy) or to a change in my behavior (forgoing exercise in exchange for countless hours of watching "Game of Thrones" in hopes of catching up to the current season). By tying things back, I am able to see that X happens (your ass gets really big) because Y has changed (you still have three seasons left before you are caught up to the current season). Wow, maybe I'm scientific after all!
So it only made sense when two years ago I started the syptomatic descent into menopause that I read as much as I could about progesterone and estrogen. And while I quickly understood on a hormone-specific level why the various bodily changes were occuring, I didn't understand on a bigger, evolutionary level as to why Mother Nature would do this to her human sisters.
Little did I know that the answer was staring me right in the face. One day, as I was plucking yet another thick, dark black hair from my chin I realized that menopause exists for one reason only: to make middle-aged women as unattractive and uninterested in sex as possible so our men will go off and procreate with younger women, leaving us hairy-chinned women to sororally collect berries and weave baskets together until we die.
What an ephiphany! I now had a whole new appreciation for my husband, specifically for his (presumed) monogamy. Though that traitor Mother Nature wants my man out frolicking with smooth-chinned women filled with ripe eggs who don't sweat uncontrollably when watching a tense scene from "Game of Thrones," he chooses to be with me. And that's pretty cool.
So how do I show my wifely appreciation (cue the feminist stone throwing)? By combating my hormone-depleted biological natural urge to do nothing else but sit around sweating with other hairy-chinned women doing the modern day equivalent of weaving baskets (read: drinking wine and sort-of-kind-of talking about books during our book-club meeting).
Instead, I pluck my hairs, take my supplements (thank you, Oona), breathe to keep my emotions/hot flashes at bay, and try to always remain a sexy - albeit eggless and big-assed - mate.
And then I happily run off to be with my book-club friends.