Dear Tiger Woods,
I don’t know how else to say this without betraying my entire gender, but it has to be said for the record, once and for all:
Women save shit.
A love note. An email. A stray hair in the bathtub. An EPT test. A junior prom corsage. A stained blue dress from the Gap. What makes you think a text message with something like, oh, say…. quietly and secretly we will always be together from a world famous multi-gazillionaire would be any different?
Whatever it is that you give us/write us/toss in the dumpster in the alley outside our house, we will stash away somewhere. Because we women? We’re insecure. We’re needy. We’re a little bit insane. And so we collect evidence that we are loved. Or if not loved, liked. Or if not liked, lusted after enough that a man would take the time out of his busy, busy PGA touring schedule to request that we forward a naked photos of our boobs.
I still have the very first emails that Nate ever sent me. They were these long, rambling, punctuation-free stabs at written flirtation that charmed my socks off. Maybe a little more. I’ve still got every one of them. Because one day, when Nate is signing 100 million-dollar contracts with Accenture for his world class ability to leave his underwear on the bathroom floor, or his unmistakable talent for changing the words to TV theme songs to include the word “fart” in every verse, I too will dig up those notes up and remind myself that he loved me when. If I can parlay them into a six-figure book deal too? Even better.
It’s not just a prerogative, it’s my genetic imperative as a woman to save that shit
Now you know. So the next time you–or any of your fellow men–decide to go cheating on your gorgeous pregnant wife with a half-dozen unpaid hookers with bad brow jobs, you can make some better choices.
So to speak.