Sometimes I get a strange and morbid pleasure from talking to my husband about cheating. Affairs. scandals. I can’t help but bring it up as I casually search his eyes for a hint of guilt, looking for some redness around his neck, trying to catch the scent of a woman’s perfume as he leans in to hug me and promises he’ll never, ever leave me for anyone. plus.
Despite ongoing surveillance, I have yet to find any clue that my husband is gambling. The deepest corners of his closet contain nothing but balls of fluff. His voice mail messages at work are boring and mundane. The credit card statement contains no mysterious charges, aside from the revelation that Hubs eats a lot more barbecue for lunch than he admits. Okay, okay, I may be a snooper, but only after watching an episode of Cheaters and having tears in my eyes as Two-Toned Tammy yells “We have a baby together! We have a baby together! How could you do that?” tell me!” her philandering boyfriend of six years after catching him in Popeye’s parking lot with her roommate/sister/best friend.
I am not alone in my sniffing either. Hubs like to show up in the middle of the day sometimes, unannounced, just to “see what I’m up to.” When I went out of town with the kids a few months ago, I came home to find that I had gone through my entire bathroom cabinet looking for God knows what. He also admitted to Googling my ex-boyfriends. I find things like this flattering. I told Hubs that I never want a boyfriend. But I have admitted that I would really like a fan.
My admirer would be handsome enough, enough to give my husband pause, but he would also be an advocate of courtly love and would have a look-but-never-touch-even-when-we-both-a-little -drunk-and-there’s-no-one-around.”
Instead, my admirer was content to send me flowers (Casablanca lilies) and candy boxes (Godiva) and poetry books (Neruda), with notes that say things like: “When I saw you in the carpool this morning with the sun on your hair, I realized that I had never seen anyone or anything more beautiful. Or “You fold a fitted sheet with a grace and perfection others can only dream of. Thank you for being you.” Or even “You’re the hottest soccer mom this side of the Mississippi. Ah-OOO-gah!” I am not private. It is the intention that counts.
My husband may not like all the attention my admirer would give me, but he would have to put up with it because he has many admirers of his own. The nature of his work is such that people constantly come up to him and tell him how good he is. She loves telling me these stories, to which I respond with something like, “Oh, same thing happened to me today. I was at the grocery store and this complete stranger came up to me and said, ‘I love your ability to save at least.’ 25% off your grocery bill every time you shop!'” Hubs usually snorts derisively while I silently rage. But my fan would put a stop to this kind of behavior.
“Hubs,” she would say, taking my husband’s hand and shaking it cordially, “I hope you know what a lucky man you are.” Hubs looked a little uncomfortable at my admirer’s firm handshake and kind eyes. That night, Hubs would appear with a large bouquet of her own and an offer of dinner and dancing. Or dine and drink, which is more our style.
“Admirer,” she said as she called me on the phone for the fifth time in a week, only to hear the charming tone of my voice, “I really can’t accept your gifts anymore. You’ve just been wonderful.” , but between you and me, I think Hubs is getting a little jealous.”
“Lucinda,” he whispered with just the right mix of regret and compassion, “I’ll be glad to admire you from afar, if that’s what it takes to make your life easier. But I’ve dedicated my life to you, and the evidence of that will be there.” impossible for any of you to ignore.” Unfortunately, we both hung up the phone.
After weeks of not hearing from my Admirer, my husband would quietly bring me a copy of the newspaper’s Live section. “Local Artist Receives International Recognition for ‘Lucinda’ Series,” read the headline. In the photo next to his oil painting called “Lucinda with the Sun in Her Hair” would be my Admirer, his fiery, questioning eyes burning through the newsprint.
A short time later, she would be named Parent magazine’s Mother of the Year based on an anonymous submission. Hubs would try to pretend he mailed the entry, but the editor’s admission that my “ability to artfully manage the lives of my husband and three children while radiating an amazing inner calm and astounding the locals with my otherworldly beauty” set me apart from the rest. other participants would give me clues as to who was really responsible for my resulting photo shoot and free trip to New York.
By the end of that year, “Lucinda (Love of My Life)” would top the adult contemporary music chart.
I would join the super exclusive ranks of world famous muses. From time to time, Vogue or Vanity Fair did short pieces about me, despite my wish to remain anonymous. The only photos they could get would be of me running between my minivan and my front door, using one arm to balance Baby and a bag of soccer balls and holding the other in front of my oversized sunglasses and Pucci. face covered by a scarf. Yet readers would notice the seduction in my frown, the rushing spring in my step. Soon, I would have fans showing up at my door from all over the world.
So you see, what really is an affair besides a little rushed sex and a lot of postcoital guilt? A fan is really the way to go. If I know of any good candidates, I’d be happy to review their qualifications…