Sometimes I (secretly) blame my children for my dwindling wits and forehead creases, but if a recent bee study turns out to apply to humans as well, the scary reality is that I’d be even dumber and more haggard-looking without them. Scientists have discovered that when mama bees remain in their nests and take care of their babies, their mental competence stays more or less the same. But when they leave the nest to gather food, aging accelerates faster than a seventeen-year-old kid chasing a car full of naked hookers on the Autobahn. After just two weeks, the researchers found, bees that left their little ones behind have worn wings, hairless bodies, and significantly reduced brain functioning, specifically measured as the ability to learn new things. (Sound familiar?) But check this out: When the mama bees are forced out of foraging mode and sent back to care for their babies, their brainpower skyrockets once again. And as it happens, the proteins that the big-brained bees produce when they’re on nest duty are the very same ones humans produce.
I think the lesson here is that while you can’t blame your children for your forgetfulness,* there are still great benefits to having them. For instance, tomorrow when you’re cuddling on the couch watching America’s Funniest Home Videos with them and feeling guilty because you’re not doing anything “productive,” you can tell yourself that you’re doing it for your brain. (Just don’t tell your husband this. He’ll insist the benefit is all in the TV-watching, and you’ll never, ever get him to mow the lawn again.)
CHAPTER 17
Abject Poverty, Bunny Boilers, and Other Reasons I Will Never Have an Affair
Even though I have no plans to engage in any of the many characteristic activities associated with the proverbial “midlife crisis,” I’ll admit I can understand at least some of them. As I’ve mentioned, I’d get a face-lift and a sexy new car tomorrow this afternoon if money and risk of death weren’t two very real, prohibiting factors. And even though I don’t have my own laminated list of Things I Want to Do before I Die, I respect and appreciate the effort and enthusiasm that goes into crafting such an ambitious registry. But the one thing I cannot—and never will—fathom is the midlife extramarital affair.
Don’t get me wrong. I suppose it’s possible to imagine what might motivate other people who didn’t get as lucky as I did in the spousal department and, therefore, aren’t as blissfully happy as I am to entertain the idea of a fling in the fantasy realm. And of course I’ve wondered what it might be like to experience a delicious stretch of unfamiliar flesh beneath my fingers or to feel the sweet flutter of butterfly wings in my belly again when an unknown pair of lips brushes the back of my neck.* I also get how it’s tempting to think that all of my other miserable worries would melt away if I were simply being worshiped as a beautiful and interesting goddess for even a half hour every other week. And who couldn’t use a good kick in the ass to get into bikini shape? But I also believe in integrity and honesty and being true to your word, and I very distinctly recall promising that I would be faithful to one man and one man only until death did us part (even though as I pointed out in my last book, it’s hard to comprehend exactly how long that can feel until you’re knee-deep in it). So as long as Joe and I have even a weak pair of pulses between us, and he hasn’t done something unforgivingly egregious like hit me or sign a billion-year contract pledging his loyalty to a religion that worships the alien ruler of the Galactic Federacy who came to earth seventy-five million years ago in a spaceship,* or have an affair of his own, I’m in this for the long haul. Besides—and I don’t think I can put too fine a point on this, really—who the hell has time for all that a steamy extramarital affair would entail?
I’ll be honest, it’s hard enough for me to carve a big enough sliver out of my schedule for a handful of shags a month with one guy (and believe me, it’s not like we’re Sting and Trudie over here). And the one I’ve got now happens not to care if I shave my legs or brush my teeth first! Ostensibly, if I were getting some side action as well and hoping not to get caught, I’d have to maintain my wifely duties at home while also finding twenty or thirty extra hours each week to groom, send hundreds of titillating sext messages, sculpt sexy abs, conspire about possible rendezvous locations, obsess about every inch of my naked body, hide mountains of evidence, fabricate fake appointments, bribe friends to be reliable and convincing alibis, panic about being caught, and then actually have sex with this person.
I get exhausted just thinking about it.
Besides, my husband and I both work from home, so how on earth would I pull it off?
“Bye, honey!” I’d try to trill casually, mentally calculating the fastest route to the Motel 6.
“Where’re you going?” Joe would ask innocently, reflexively, because we always ask each other this when one or the other actually leaves the house—which isn’t often.
“Oh, to the grocery store,” I’d mutter, thinking to myself, Christ now I have to come home with groceries! I hope Xander is naked and ready to go when I get there.
“Are you wearing . . . eye makeup?” Joe would demand, stepping in closely to inspect my unusually plump lashes.
“Oh yeah, maybe a little mascara,” I’d stammer, rubbing my nose— Shit, that’s the first sign you’re supposed to look for to see if someone is lying! Did he read that issue of Psychology Today, too?—and patting my bangs down over my eyes. “I, um . . . I got a free sample, so I was trying it out.”
Oh, what a tangled web we weave . . .
“You smell really nice, too,” he’d say, sniffing around my neck and starting to sound accusing.
“New deodorant,” I’d mutter, brushing past him with a peck on the cheek.
When first we practice to deceive . . .
“What time will you be back?” he’d call to my back.
“Couple hours,” I’d reply vaguely. “I need to hit the bank, too, and the shoe repair place, and then I have to pick up some tampons and stop by the gynecologist to drop off an endometrial tissue sample . . .”
(The tampon and gynecologist stuff is something an older, wiser colleague taught me at my very first job. “If you ever need to skip out for a personal errand or want to go to the gym,” my astute new friend had advised me, “just mumble something vague involving feminine hygiene, and nobody will ask any questions.” I’m sure that our boss thought I had herpes or cervical dysplasia or at least some benign fibroid tumors for the amount of time I supposedly spent dealing with my troubled lady parts.)
If you think this is an exaggeration, I promise you that just a few weeks ago my husband became inordinately suspicious when he came up to my office to find me in a bathrobe with a towel wrapped around my wet hair.
“You going somewhere?” he asked.
“Nope,” I told him, typing away.
“Well, how come you took a shower?” he wanted to know.
“I do that every once in a while,” I reminded him.
“Yeah, but in the middle of the day?” he demanded.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m having an affair.” And then we laughed and laughed about the fact that taking a lousy shower was cause for questioning around here. Can you imagine if I were shaving my legs more than twice a month?
As if the lying and vow breaking and finding time for illicit activities parts of hypothetically cheating on my husband weren’t enough of a deterrent, after thirteen years of Catholic schooling I’m pretty sure the guilt would kill me. Hell, I feel bad when I swaddle my leftovers in misleading wrapping and bury them in the back of the fridge so Joe won’t find and eat them. Plus I read once that having an affair breaks six of the Ten Commandments—and actually more if you hook up with your fling on the holy Sabbath or accidentally cry out “Oh my God” during sex. Risking eternal damnation in Hades’s fiery pit with all of the other souls of the damned just doesn’t seem worth it for a few rounds of hide-the-salami, even if it is a really delicious and exotic piece of meat unlike anything you have in your refr
igerator at home.
Also? Surely, I can’t be the only person who was totally and permanently traumatized by the movie Fatal Attraction. That flick came out the year I graduated from high school, and my guess is that if you looked at a longitudinal graph of extramarital activity throughout the century, there’d be a titanic dip right there at the 1987 mark. There’s nothing like watching a seemingly normal woman seduce a married man with electric elevator sex and then immediately embark on a psycho murderous rampage to convince you that infidelity can be risky. That crazy bitch cooked his kid’s pet bunny! For the love of all that is furry, that’s just . . . wrong. Well done, Hollywood. Well done.*
Let’s not forget that one of the greatest benefits of being married is not having to date anymore or pretend to be captivated by another person’s interests or tiresome life history. It’s been nearly two decades since I’ve had to do this, and I honestly don’t think I could muster even two ounces of fake enthusiasm. “So, what was your childhood like? How many brothers and sisters do you have? What are your thoughts on life after death?” Now I’m going to have to remember all of this crap? Where exactly am I going to store this information? Not to mention at some point I’d likely be expected to share all of my own personal baggage again—which, honestly, is not something that anybody I’m not paying $150 an hour should ever have to hear. And I don’t know about you, but I’d eat pickled rattlesnake meat doused in kerosene if it meant I never again had to back away from the bed in what I’m praying is a seductive manner so that the guy in it wouldn’t catch a glimpse of my flabby, dimpled ass.
Of course no anti-affair argument would be complete without a section on the potential financial consequences. Suppose I’m considering an affair right at this very minute. For argument’s sake, let’s assume the hypothetical object of my illicit affection is not in fact a Saudi sheikh, retired anesthesiologist, or Warren Buffet. This means that I’m going to have to find a way to pony up for my share of the hotel rooms, plane tickets, sexy lingerie, personal training sessions, romantic dinners, condoms, and whipped cream we’ll be needing. Of course, all of this will have to be paid for in cash so that there’s no pesky paper trail for my unsuspecting husband to find and follow. Two measly trysts a month could easily add up to a cool grand, and the chances of me squirreling away that much cash unnoticed are up there with Chelsea Handler’s odds of becoming a nun.
Even if my boy toy is fabulously flush and willing to foot the entire bill for our extracurricular activities, surely I’ll still want a few new pairs of Hanky Pankys and the occasional spray tan—neither of which could be purchased with the spare change hiding beneath my couch cushions. I cringe at the thought of having to be all, “Um, Mohammad Ali-Algebra? Do you think you could spot me fifty bucks so I can pick up some panties that have actual working elastic? I promise I’ll make it worth your while [wink wink].”
Then let’s imagine for a minute that Mohammad and I get a little sloppy—he forgets his turban after a quickie in the backseat of my SUV, or one of his eleven wives walks in on us enjoying a nice Jacuzzi bath and snaps a scandalous iPhone photo that she promptly forwards to the local newspaper—do you think my honorable, blameless husband is going to let me off the hook easily?
Oh no. No, he is not.
And when he kicks my ass to the curb, where exactly am I going to go? How am I going to come up with the first month’s rent, last month’s rent, and security deposit on my shitty ghetto apartment? (You know as well as I do that Mohammad dropped me like a steaming diaper the minute our hot tub photo hit the front page under the headline “Wealthy Sheikh Caught Slumming with Middle-Aged Soccer Mom.”) Even if I somehow manage to put a feeble roof over my sad, pathetic head, how am I possibly going to pay for little luxuries like a bed and a shower curtain and food to put in my ancient, rusty refrigerator? You think I’m getting alimony? Please. I wasn’t smart enough to sit back and pop bonbons and watch soap operas all day and let my husband support me during our marriage, so he will be under no obligation to finance me now.
“God damn you, Mohammad!” I weep into my dirty pillowcase. (My apartment didn’t come with a washer and dryer, and have you been to a Laundromat lately? Disgusting.) “You said you loved me! And I believed you. And Joe! Sweet, loyal, dependable Joe. How could I do this to you? To our family? To us? God, I’m an idiot. A total, fucking, absolute, penniless idiot!”
Oh yeah, our family. Nice example I’m setting for my daughters over here, right?
“But Mommy, you lied,” they’d cry, confused and disappointed.
“Yes, yes, I did,” I’d have to confess.
“You said that lying was the worst thing we could ever do,” they’d say between gasping sobs as they watched me pack my suitcase.
“I sure did,” I’d agree, taking out some shoes to make room for the Vitamix blender, because I love my green smoothies and that machine costs four hundred dollars and where am I going to get that kind of money now?
“But how come it was okay for you to lie, then?” they’d want to know.
“Well, honey, there are lots of things I can do that you can’t,” I’d say, trying to rationalize away their pain and my guilt at the same time. “Like, I can drink margaritas and drive a car and have babies, and you can’t, right? You’ll understand someday.”
“So we get to lie when we’re grown-ups?” they’ll ask, suddenly all giddy.
“Sure you can!” I’d have to tell them. “Just make sure you’re totally positive you can get away with it—and that you can afford to support yourself if you get caught.”
Despite the tremendous disaster potential inherent in cheating on your spouse, married people have affairs every day. If you’re not lucky enough to be seduced by a dude at work or lock eyes with the lust of your life while you’re waiting for your foot fungus prescription to be filled at Costco, you can always hop on over to one of the many websites like AshleyMadison .com (tagline: “Life is short. Have an affair.”) that have been specifically created to help married cheaters hook up with other married cheaters. Oh, people don’t really do that, you say, shaking your head in disbelief. Really? I guess those 1,800,000 unique visitors every single month land there by looking for stories about Ashley Olsen strolling down Madison Avenue, or searching for cute names should they find out they’re pregnant with twin girls. What? It could happen.
Pick up any random issue of People magazine at your nail salon, and you’ll find proof of a simple fact: Affairs make people crazy. They crush reputations, alienate friends, and ruin lives. Tiger Woods lost his stunning supermodel wife (not to mention the 750 million bucks he had to turn over to her, plus high-profile endorsement deals with Accenture, AT&T, Gatorade, GM, and TAG Heuer, resulting in combined shareholder losses estimated to be between five and twelve billion dollars—yes, billion with a B) because he couldn’t keep his pants zipped around porn stars. Jude Law cheated on lovely Sienna Miller with the fucking babysitter, which I am pretty sure is every wife’s worst nightmare and hopefully will come back like a giant karmic boomerang to smack him in the ass in a big and painful way someday. Bill Clinton risked the Presidency of the United States for a blowjob from a chubby White House intern. Clearly, seeing as how by most scientific accounts humans aren’t even meant to be monogamous in the first place, a little side action is tough to resist.
Of course it’s not always the famous fellows who are the philanderers: LeAnn Rimes, Tori Spelling, Heidi Klum, J-Lo, Madonna, Kristen Stewart, Whoopi Goldberg, Meg Ryan, Elizabeth Taylor, Jessica Simpson, Anne Heche, Britney Spears, Kate Hudson, and Princess Diana—may her royal soul rest in peace—are all reportedly card-carrying members of the Lying, Cheating, Home-Wrecking Whores Club. And for what? A different set of hands grabbing your ass while you brush your teeth, or a new brand of stinky basketball socks on top of your hamper lid? No thanks. I think I’ll stick with the lovably bumbling oaf I’ve already got.
CHAPTER 18
&nb
sp; But I Lived in the Moment Yesterday
Another under-recognized hallmark of this magical midlife period (besides owning Muffin Top Stoppers and having totally frozen foreheads and pinning bucket lists to our virtual bulletin boards, of course) would have to be a fascination with new age crap.
From tai chi to feng shui, everyone’s doing it, at least in my social circles. Friendships born of bar dancing and party hopping now involve more navel gazing and soul searching than I’d care to admit. We read books about Ayurveda together and contemplate the colors of our auras—mine is green, apparently, which suggests I’m powerful, organized, and intelligent, so obviously auras are both existent and accurate—and help each other rid our new homes of bitter old spirits by parading about the properties with burning stalks of sage. (We really do this.) We’ve traded step aerobics for hot Vinyasa classes (performed in one-hundred-degree rooms to “maximize detoxification and intensity,” not to mention “maximize the nasal assault of compounded bodily odors caused by practicing yoga in overcrowded one-hundred-degree rooms”) and covered our LA VIDA LOCA tattoos with much more demure and tasteful third-eye designs. We download meditation challenges to our iPods, and then we actually do them. And some of us—not me, I swear—spend our precious vacation time and money at new age spas doing asinine things like having strangers rhythmically tap wooden pegs into our backs with a tiny hammer and shove hoses up our assholes.* Oh yes, we are the crystal-clutching hippies my conservative blue-collar parents warned me about.
I've Still Got It...I Just Can't Remember Where I Put It: Awkwardly True Tales from the Far Side of Forty Page 17
