The Greatest Golfer, But Not The Greatest Player

So it looks like my favorite Cablasian got caught cheating on his wife, confirming what I’ve believed all along: Women are smarter than men. Tiger may be one of the world’s best golfers, but he’s a lousy player, if you get what I mean.

Think about it: If politicians, NBA stars, rock stars, and even the President of the United States got caught cheating on their wives, what made Tiger Woods think he wouldn’t get caught?

Here’s where I think women are smarter than men: Women think of cheating in terms of relationships; men think of it as transactional. Let me explain.

For example, married women would find a way to use relationships to shield their husbands from their extramarital relationships. A married woman would be smart enough to assume that the person she’s cheating with is as low-down as she is and has nothing to lose from outing her, so she would choose a cheating partner who had some “skin in the game,” so to speak – someone with something to lose by going public with their cheating, i.e., a married man, preferably a wealthy one living in a community property state who would stand to lose half of his fortune if caught.

Second, what a woman understands about relationships that men don’t is this: Sooner or later, if you keep cheating with the woman you’re cheating with, she’s going to think, “If I’m so much better than your wife that you’re sleeping with me, why aren’t I good enough to be the wife?” Kinda like Monica Lewinsky thinking she was going to take Hillary’s place. Whether we care to admit it or not, women can be extremely competitive when it comes to gaining and maintaining the affections of men. Therefore, what men don’t understand that women do is that you either have to maintain the hope of ascending to the wife’s place for your mistress if you want to keep the cheating going, or stop cheating with this particular mistress before such hope can take hold in her. But you can’t keep the cheating going without some false hope unless she’s got something to lose by outing the relationship, i.e., a wealthy husband. In Tiger’s case, the mistress’ wealthy husband would have to have been worth at least $ 1 billion to make it worthwhile to keep her mouth shut. And the false hope won’t sustain her forever. When your mistress starts singing lines from Jill Scott’s “My Love,” i.e., “My love is deeper, tighter, sweeter, higher, flyer . . . didn’t you know this?”, then you’re about done. The demands will increase and secrecy of your “transgressions” will be on the line.

Finally, a married woman would have removed all traces and evidence of cheating to maintain the marriage, if for no other reason, to avoid losing her children. Unlike Tiger, a married woman would have had more than one cell phone for her dirty deeds, and the one used for her cheating would have been a non-contract throwaway without phone records. She would have had separate credit cards with the bills going to different addresses to pay for her misdeeds. And she would have maintained her sexual relationship with her husband to remove any doubt. Because for women, if you can’t maintain the relationships, you risk losing the “transactions,” if you will. It’s all about balancing and insulating the relationships. We women excel at this.

That’s why Tiger may be the greatest golfer ever, but we women are the greatest players.

My Michelles Found Their Baracks

Long story short, I got my Baracks. As my dad would say, "God is good, all the time."

I would be lying if I said I didn't have doubts. But I never gave up hope. Never.

My prayers were answered in the form of a speed dater who will remain anonymous. When I explained to him the kind of event this was and the kind of women who would be attending, he embraced this event and brought not only his enthusiasm, but his friends: A whole posse of Baracks. They were well-read, well-mannered, well-groomed, and, I'll just say it -- Fine. I couldn't have dreamt up a better group of men if I had gotten them from Central Casting.

They were worthy of my Michelles. These women, many of whom were goaded into coming (like my niece, Single Parent Goddess), were jaded and, I don't think it's hyperbole to say, bitter. One, who shall remain anonymous, told me she had thrown in the towel on love and wouldn't participate after having RSVP'd. Instead, she worked as a hostess at the event and eventually joined in.

But you wouldn't have known these ladies were jaded by the way they dressed and carried themselves. These women were the epitome of grace, class, beauty, intelligence and style -- the kind of black women who aren't written about because they don't fit the mainstream media's idea of who we black women are. They truly were a room full of Michelles. As they streamed in, I was feeling the pressure -- I needed to deliver men worthy of them. But God heard my prayer and sent Baracks to me, or rather, to my Michelles.

All throughout planning this event, my mantra was, "If the women are comfortable, the men will be happy." I spared no expense paying attention to details that I knew women would notice and would put them at ease -- printed speed dating cards on linen card stock; starched and ironed white tablecloths (which I ironed and starched myself -- I highly recommend heavy starch for tablecloths), white chairs (courtesy of the 40 Acres Art Gallery next door); cherry-scented votive candles; and the one thing that seemed to make all the lady speed daters stop and take notice:

Purple tulips.

Every table had at least one or two vases of deep purple tulips.

As I imagined, the women were comfortable, and the men were happy. So happy, they oftentimes would overstay their three-minute dates and had the hostesses have to scoot them along.

The hostesses, members of the underground books Book Club, were happy to see the excitement in the air -- that intelligent, book-loving single African Americans (and people of other races, too) had found each other and were overflowing with enthusiasm to share their love of books with someone of the opposite sex. The hostesses beamed with pride at these singles with their bright eyes and beautiful smiles, chatting away.

At the end, every speed dater and all the hostesses (and the one host -- BMNB) gave his or her speed dating number or name and his or her favorite author or book. This list was wide and deep -- Robert Persig, Jane Austen, J. California Cooper, Sun Tzu, Toni Morrison, Stephen King --and folks oohed and ahhed at their fellow speed daters' choices. Many compiled a reading list of books suggested by their fellow speed daters and purchased books on the spot, some in preparation for and in hopes of a match with the speed dater who recommended the book they were purchasing.

My Michelles found their Baracks. And I couldn't be happier.