Sometimes I forget that I’m living the most turbulent moment of my adult life. I go to work, do normal things, say normal things, then I remember that I was enticed into sneaking out to go see my lover at midnight in the back of his van, like a teenager.
I had more sense when I was a teenager, actually.
I’ve been doing my hair differently, putting it up in ways that are looser, framing my face. I’ve attacked the forest that used to be my eyebrows. I’ve tamed the hair crawling out of my bikini with an expensive machine that’s supposed to zap hair follicles. With all the stress, I’ve lost weight, and my body is this beautiful, lithe thing that I don’t even recognize.
But I’m taking precautions. Tomorrow I’m going to see someone who can rent me a room. I’m starting a therapy next week, couples therapy, but I’m going the first time without my husband. I will tell the therapist that I’m sleeping around like some nutty nympho, and I’ll have the room rented in case I get kicked out.
My deal was this; if you want to stay in your relationship, you never, ever tell your partner about having sex outside of the legitimate relationship. That’s the deal; you live with it. You only tell them if you don’t care anymore.
I don’t know if I want to tell him or not.