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The Guiltless Affair
I get a strange, grim pleasure sometimes out of talking to my husband about cheating. Cases. Scandals. I can’t help but bring him up as I casually scan his eyes for a glint of guilt, looking for a distinct redness around the collar, trying to catch the scent of a woman when he jumps a -in to kiss me and promise he never would. , never leave me for anyone else.
Despite constant vigilance, I have yet to find any clues that my husband is missing. The deepest recesses of his closet hold nothing but lint balls. The messages on his voicemail at work are boring and unique. There are no secret charges in the credit card statement, other than the revelation that Hubs eats far more barbeque for lunch than he admits. Okay, okay, I can be a snoop – but only after watching an episode of Cheaters and getting tears in my eyes as Two-Toned Tammy screamed “We got a baby together! We had a baby together! How could you do this to me!” at her philandering boyfriend of six years after he caught her in the Popeye’s parking lot with her roommate/sister/best friend.
I’m not alone in my snooping, either. Hubs like to show up in the middle of the day sometimes, unannounced, just to “see what I’m doing. ” When I went out of town with the kids a few months ago, I came home to find he had gone through my entire bathroom cabinet, looking for what does god know. He has also admitted to Googling my ex-boyfriends. I find such a thing flattering. I have told Hubs that I will never want a boyfriend. But I have admitted that I would really like an admirer.
My admirer would be very handsome, enough to stop my husband, but he would also be an advocate of courtly love and would be “eye-but-not-touch-EVER-not-even-when -you’ re-both a little drunk-and-nobody around” kind of feeling.
Instead, my admirer would be happy to send me flowers (Casablanca lilies) and boxes of candy (Godiva) and books of poems (Neruda), with notes that say things like, “When I saw you in a carpool this morning with the sun inside. your hair, I realized that I have never seen anyone or anything more beautiful.” Or “You fold a bill equipped with grace and perfection that others can only dream of. Thanks for being you.” Or even “You’re the hottest soccer mom this side of the Mississippi. Ah-OOO-gah!” I’m not special. It’s the thought that counts.
My husband might not like all the attention the admirer would give me, but he had to accept it because he has many admirers himself. The nature of his work is such that people always come up to him and tell him how good he is. He likes to tell me these stories, to which I counter with something like, “Oh the same thing happened to me today. I was at the supermarket and this complete stranger walked up and said, ‘I like your ability to save anyway. 25% But my lover would put a stop to this kind of behavior.
“Majors,” he would say, taking my husband’s hand in a hearty shake, “I hope you know you are a lucky man.” Hubs looked a little uneasy as he noted my agent’s firm handshake and kind eyes. That night, Hubs turned up with a huge bouquet of his own and an offer of dinner and dancing. Or dinner and drinks, which is more our style.
“Looker,” I’d say as he called me on the phone for the fifth time in a week, just to hear the seductive tone of my voice, “I can no longer accept your gifts. You’ve been just wonderful, but between you and me, I think Hubs is getting a little jealous.”
“Lucinda,” he would say with just the right mixture of regret and pity, “I’ll be happy to love you from afar, if that’s what it takes to make your life easier. But I spent my life to you, and it will be impossible to ignore the evidence of that.” Sadly, we would both hang up the phone.
After weeks of not hearing from my Admiral, my husband would quietly hand me a copy of the Live section of the newspaper. “Local Artist Receives International Recognition for ‘Lucinda’ Series”, the headline read. In the picture next to his oil painting called “Lucinda with the Sun in Her Hair” would be my Admiral, his questioning eyes shooting through the newspaper.
Before long, I would be named Parent Magazine’s Mother of the Year based on an anonymous submission. Hubs would try to pretend he emailed the entry, but the editor admitted that my “ability to manage the lives of my husband and three children artfully as they moved on with amazing calm inside and amazed the locals with my otherworldly beauty” that set me apart from what other visitors would let me know who was really responsible for my photo session and the free trip to New York.
By the end of that year, “Lucinda (Love of My Life)” would be at the top of the Adult Contemporary music chart.
I would join the very special ranks of world famous muses. Sometimes, Vogue or Vanity Fair would do short pieces on me, despite my desire to remain anonymous. The only pictures they could conjure up were of me running between my minivan and my front door, using one arm to balance a baby and a football bag and hold the other up in front of my big sunglasses and Pucci face covered with a scarf. But readers would note how good my cheek is, the quick spring in my step. Soon, I would have Admirers showing up at my door from all over the world.
So you see, what is a real relationship besides a bonking rush and lots of postcoital guilt? A true follower is the way forward. If you know of any good candidates, I would be happy to review their credentials…
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