The Guildless Affair
Sometimes I get a strange, morbid pleasure from talking to my husband about cheating. Affairs. scandals. I can’t help but bring it up as I casually search her eyes for a hint of guilt, looking for some redness around her neck, trying to catch the whiff of a woman’s perfume as she leans in to hug me and promises she never would. Never leave me for anyone else.
Despite continued surveillance, I have yet to find any clues that my husband is gambling. The deepest corners of his closet contain nothing but fluffballs. His voicemail messages at work are boring and mundane. The credit card statement contains no mystery charges, other than the revelation that Hubs eats much more barbecue for lunch than he admits. Okay, okay, I can 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!” to her womanizing boyfriend of six years after catching him in Popeye’s parking lot with her roommate/sister/best friend.
I’m not alone in my prying, either. Hubs like to show up in the middle of the day sometimes, unannounced, just to “see what I’m up to”. When I left 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 this kind of thing flattering. I told Hubs that I never want a boyfriend. But I have admitted that I would really like an admirer.
My admirer would be quite handsome, enough to give my husband pause, but he would also be an advocate of courtly love and have a “look-but-don’t-touch-NEVER-even-when-re-both-a-little -drunk-and-there’s-nobody-around.”
Instead, my admirer would be content 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 the carpool this morning with the sun in 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. Thanks for being you.” Or even “You’re the hottest soccer mom this side of the Mississippi. Ah-OOO-gah!” I am not particular. 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 are constantly coming up to him and telling him how good he is. He loves to tell 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 and said, ‘I love your ability to save at least.’ 25% off your bill every time you shop!'” Hubs usually snorts derisively as I rage silently. But my fan would put an end to this kind of behavior.
“Hubs,” she would say, taking my husband’s hand and shaking it warmly, “I hope you know what a very lucky man you are.” Hubs looked a little uncomfortable noticing my admirer’s firm handshake and kind eyes. That night, Hubs would show up with a large bouquet of his own and an offer of dinner and dancing. Or dine and drink, which is more our style.
“Fan,” she’d say as she phoned me for the fifth time in a week, only to hear the lovely tone in my voice, “I really can’t take your gifts anymore. You’ve been just 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 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 Live section of the newspaper. “Local artist receives international recognition for ‘Lucinda’ series,” read the headline. Pictured next to the oil painting of him called “Lucinda with the Sun in Her Hair” would be my Admirer, her scorching, questioning eyes burning through the newsprint.
Shortly thereafter, she would be named Mother of the Year by Parent magazine based on an anonymous submission. Hubs would try to pretend he mailed the entry, but the editor’s admission that my “ability to deftly manage the lives of my husband and three children while radiating an astonishing inner calm and wowing the locals with my otherworldly beauty “He 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 would do short pieces about me, despite my wish to remain anonymous. The only photos they might get would be of me running between my minivan and my front door, using one arm to balance Baby and a bag of footballs and holding the other in front of my oversized sunglasses and Pucci. face covered by a scarf. However, 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 post-coital guilt? An admirer is really the way to go. If you know of any good candidates, I’ll gladly review their qualifications…
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