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Your Heroic Journey With Men:

Adam Gilad
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image“I want to live in separate houses,” she said. We were sitting on the living room floor. She had just unwrapped the handcrafted silk scarf I bought her in a remote Bavarian Village. I had realized, racing that test-drive BMW Z-3, (not yet released in the in the States) through those Alpine peaks, that my marriage was dead. Not foully murdered. No blood. No viciousness. Just — like that famed Norwegian Blue parrot of Monty Python fame, standing only because it had been nailed to its perch; this marriage had ceased to be. Had expired and gone to meet its maker. This was an ex marriage. So being the dutiful husband and father of two small boys that I was, I bought her a beautiful gift and came home to suggest that we sell our house and travel around the world – in other words – resurrect ourselves, find a way to make it work.

She, not so amazingly, had come to the same conclusion while I was away: marriage. Dead. She wanted a 6-month break to discover herself as just herself, not as my wife, and not as a “mom.” “Well,” I said, well entrenched in my “ordinary world” of good husband/good father, “if you want to go to a Buddhist monastery and meditate for 6 months, I’ll support you. But if you want to sleep with other guys, that’s a divorce.” “I’ve never slept with another man. I want to experience that.” “Well, I haven’t slept with another man,” I said. “You don’t see me complaining.” She didn’t laugh. I got it.

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