“How was it?” I ask.
“Awesome!” Connor exclaims.
“Totally,” Matthew chimes in.
“Those guys are really silly,” Jessie says with a giggle.
“You can give me all the details tomorrow,” I say. “Right now, get some sleep.” I pat Matthew on the behind as he turns away from me. “You’ve got a game in the morning, partner.”
“I know,” he returns in a weary voice.
Connor lingers as Jessie and Matthew make their way to the stairs.
“Thanks for letting me go,” he whispers. I smile and ruffle his hair, then nudge him toward his siblings.
“Teeth,” I order, watching the three of them as they trudge up the stairs.
“Yes, Mom,” they say in unison. Jonah remains in the archway, also following their ascent with his eyes, then steps into the living room and heads in my direction. He glances at the TV, then squints at me.
“I thought you hated Adam Sandler.”
“I liked Wedding Singer,” I point out.
“This is Happy Gilmore.”
“Right,” I reply. “It’s not too bad.”
He perches next to me on the arm of the sofa as I grab the remote and pause the movie.
“The kids loved it, huh?”
“Oh, yeah. We had great seats. Three rows back, center. We missed you.”
“I missed you guys, too.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“Did you get the honey for Mom?”
“Yeah, it’s in the kitchen.”
“Great, thanks. So, you had a nice evening to yourself?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I can’t bring myself to look my husband in the eye, even though I have decided, after careful consideration, that I have nothing to feel guilty about. Ben and I behaved innocently, despite what might have gone through either of our minds. Despite what went through my mind. If there was a definite attraction between us, and at this point that is no longer an if, we resisted, ignored, and suppressed it, just like two honorable, respectable, moral people should.
So he kissed my hand, I tell myself for the tenth time. It’s not like he fondled my clitoris in the back of Starbucks.
“Good.”
“What?”
“Good. I’m glad you had a nice evening.”
He sits quietly for a moment, gazing at the frozen image of Adam Sandler swinging a fist at Bob Barker. Then he returns his attention to me. I, on the other hand, am staring at the coffee table, my inner debate with myself continuing at full volume.
If he had tried to fondle my clitoris in the back of Starbucks, would I have let him?
That is the $64,000 question.
“We’re okay, right?”
I turn toward Jonah but say nothing.
“I was a total shit the other day,” he says, taking my hand in his. His hands are larger than Ben’s, and rougher. I instantly put a stop to the comparison. It will lead to tragedy, I’m certain.
“I really am sorry. I know I said it before.” This is to remind me that he is now apologizing for a second time, and I should be intensely grateful. And I am. Unlike many men, Jonah is great about apologizing.
“We’re okay,” I tell him, because, let’s face it, after my spending the evening in the company of another man, seriously flirting and indulging in luscious, albeit brief, fantasies, Jonah’s behaving like a jerk kind of pales in comparison.
“I’m glad,” he says. He bends over and kisses my cheek, and I feel the familiar and comforting chafe of his five o’clock shadow. “I didn’t want to leave on Sunday without us resolving things.”
“Consider them resolved,” I assure him, and give his hand a squeeze.
“So.” He glances back at the TV. “Are you going to watch all of this or come up?”
“I think I’ll give it a few more minutes. Want to join me?” I ask this last because I know he wants me to; it serves as a confirmation that things really are back to normal. Of course, in reality, things are as far from normal as they ever have been within the construct of our marriage.
“It’s tempting. You know how I love Adam Sandler. And this is a classic.”
I pat the cushion next to me, but Jonah shakes his head. “I think I’ll go check on the kids.” Which is code for As soon as I’m sure they’re down, I’m going to crash. I nod to him. “Don’t stay up too late?” he adds.
“I won’t.” Just long enough to rehash my evening with Ben one more time, in an effort to defuse its power over me.
He releases my hand, stands, and makes a beeline for the stairs, turning back to me when he reaches the bottom. “Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I reply.
And then, the most unexpected thing happens. My cell phone, which I actually remembered to plug into its charger in the kitchen, makes a pinging sound that I have heard only once before when I accidentally accessed the ring tone menu.
“That’s your phone,” Jonah says as he steps onto the first riser. He stops and gives me a quizzical look. “When did you start texting?”
“I didn’t.” I set down the remote, push myself off the couch, and head for the kitchen. The phone’s red light flashes conspicuously at me from the computer station and I move toward it as though it is a beacon. My fingers close around the phone and I think, Could it be?
I stare at the device, not lost in thought, but rather trying to figure out how to receive a text, since I have never done it before. When Jonah gave me the phone the previous Christmas, he treated me to a long and stupor-inducing dissertation on the infinite number of apps this particular model possessed. I had subsequently made it clear that I had no intention of texting anyone, ever. This led to an argument about the indisputable benefits of cell phones. How could I not be rapt with elation over possessing such an amazing piece of technology? Jonah even sank so low as to call me a dinosaur, which, since I hadn’t really been paying close attention to his whole diatribe, offended me no end. I told him that he might as well have called me an elephant or a hippo or a cow, to which he responded that dinosaur was a comment not on my girth but on my archaic sensibilities.
Speaking of archaic sensibilities, I have to say that I am not enamored of my cell phone at all. In fact, I pretty much hate it. Of course this is something I dare not profess out loud, lest someone hear me and call the nearest insane asylum to alert them that there is a loony tune on the loose.
I remember a particular PTA meeting a few years back at which I confessed to Lila Bonaventura that I had accidentally left my cell phone at home. The PTA room went thunderously silent and all eyes turned toward me. Sixty faces regarded me wearing expressions of complete disbelief as though I’d just been caught fornicating in church or I had voted to let Susan Smith out of jail free. A moment later, when the moms returned to their tittering, Lila whispered to me, “Next time you should just say you dropped it in the toilet.” As if I ever would take my cell phone into the bathroom with me. Jesus.
I know that they are great for emergencies, but I just don’t understand why it is so imperative that we feel the need to be reachable every hour of every day. As far as I’m concerned, cell phones have changed our society for the worse. They allow people to ignore their own children and be unfailingly rude to cashiers and servers. I’ve read they cause brain tumors, to boot.
“Need any help?”
I jump at the sound of Jonah’s voice.
“No,” I lie. “I got it.”
He watches me from the doorway as I follow the prompts on the screen and actually manage to get to my texts. Or, text. I do not recognize the phone number at the top of the box, but then, that’s no surprise. Anyone who knows me knows not to text. I press the Select button and a message of only four words appears on my screen. My heart skips a beat and I tighten my jaw muscles to keep from smiling. Donning a mask of casual indifference, I look up at Jonah.
“It’s one of those spam texts,” I tell him. “I’m supposed to delete it, right?”
“Oh yeah. You can delete those. Y
ou know how to delete, right?”
I smirk at him and stick out my tongue. “Yes, I know how to delete.”
“It’s a miracle. See you upstairs.” He disappears from view and I listen to his footsteps on the stairs. Once the floorboard of the second-floor landing creaks, I return my attention to my phone, ignoring the fact that I have just officially lied to my husband.
Thanks for tonight. B.
My hand is shaking as I depress the Menu button and choose Reply. A blank rectangle appears on my screen and I stare at it for a moment, considering my words. As I type, my fingers hit several wrong keys, and the resulting message is a garbled sentence that might mean something to an alien visitor. After backspacing to the beginning, I carefully reenter my reply, check it twice, then hit Send. It is a question: How did you get my cell number?
Not thirty seconds later, the cell vibrates against my palm and pings so loudly, I’m afraid Jonah can hear it from upstairs. I look down, a bubble of excitement bursting through me. I’m a detective, remember? I read, and, God help me, I giggle like a teenager. I only make a couple of mistakes the second time around: How could I forget? Thirty seconds later, ping! He writes: The soccer team contact list. I want to slap my forehead. Instead, I write back: Duh. Must be the sake.
He doesn’t reply right away, and after a few minutes of standing in the kitchen staring dumbly at my phone, I pull out the chair at the computer desk and sit down. Another couple of minutes pass and I set my cell aside, trying not to wonder about his abrupt silence. Instead of allowing my mind to loop around that unanswerable question, I congratulate myself for diving into the texting world so quickly and easily. Of course, when properly motivated, I can pretty much do anything.
A full ten minutes stretch by, during which time I boot up my computer. I start up my browser and type in my blog’s address. I had no intention of posting tonight, or even logging in to see the number of hits I’ve had or to read people’s comments, but I am suddenly wide awake. I almost have myself convinced that I am not staying up in case Ben texts me again, but I probably wouldn’t pass a lie detector test on that subject. Yet as I scroll through the comments left by a gaggle of readers, most of whom are supportive and complimentary, and see that I have almost a hundred thousand hits, I am overtaken by an emotion as powerful as the one I felt when Ben Campbell kissed my hand tonight. (Okay, maybe not quite as powerful, but close—and yes, that does say a lot about my life.)
Ellen Ivers has done something to be proud of, something she can point to and say without modesty, I did that! I know that for a woman, children are a great source of pride, and I am exceedingly proud of my children, but I have to share that success with Jonah. And really, I have always believed that being a good mom isn’t something you should be proud of, it’s just something you should do. But this blog is all me, and that fills me with a sense of validation and purpose that I thought I’d lost somewhere between diapers and Big Wheels and projectile vomit from a four-year-old’s overindulgence in corn dogs.
I am a realist, so I am not blind to the fact that the Ladies Living-Well Journal has a readership in the millions, which makes my blog’s hundred thousand hits proportionally low. Still, I am going to allow myself to feel like hot shit for a little while. It beats brooding over Ben Campbell and feeling guilty about Jonah.
I have just finished reading a touching comment about my meat-eating post from a reader who calls herself CowLover when my cell phone pings. (I was prepared for the comment to be a scathing dressing-down on the perils of ingesting flesh, but apparently, CowLover is enamored of plate-sized portions of bloody beef and she wrote that if I am ever in Des Moines, she knows of a great steakhouse that serves forty-eight-ounce servings of prime rib and she would love for me to be her guest.)
I grab the phone and press the Menu button and the screen comes to life.
Sorry. Had to take a call.
No problem. Was just (I think for a minute) revisiting that something new I told you about.
My curiosity is getting the better of me. Not to mention my imagination.
It’s not that exciting, I promise. You’d be disappointed.
Maybe someday you’ll trust me enough to tell me about it. See you tomorrow.
Bye.
I read through our conversation, then plug the phone into its charger and set it next to the computer. I stare at my blog as thoughts both weighty and feather-light move through my mind. They tumble and turn over each other, threatening to give me a migraine. As if on autopilot, I scroll up to the menu bar of the blog and click the New Post tab. If my blog has become therapy for me, I desperately need some right about now.
Ninth Post: March 24, 2012
SomethingNewAt42
THE FLIRTATION FACTOR
My nameless relative said something to me not long ago, and it went like this: “A little flirtation with someone who is not my husband is sometimes the only thing that gets me through the day.” I think I am going to put that on a bumper sticker.
Experts say (and by experts, I mean Cosmo, of course) that flirting is healthy, something that all women should actively experience regardless of their marital status. It is as natural as breathing and as necessary to one’s mental health as air is to one’s staying alive. (I don’t know if I believe this last, but who am I to question Cosmo?) For married women especially, flirting, and being flirted with, does wonders for our self-esteem. It lets us know that we are still desirable despite the sweat-sock fuzz between our toes that has replaced pedicure foam. Flirting is our God-given right to be completely ourselves instead of someone’s wife or mother. And we must remind ourselves of who we are every once in a while or we may eventually be swallowed up by anonymity, never to be heard from again.
And the bottom line is that flirting is harmless. Or is it? The act of flirtation itself is harmless. Placing the emphasis on certain words, throaty laughter, witty replies, double entendres: very stimulating, yes. But where is the demarcation line between innocent flirting and adulterous betrayal? It’s somewhere between batting your eyelashes at the male in question and mounting him in the back of a Starbucks. (I am speaking hypothetically, of course.) But the line is fuzzy and easily overlooked. You might not even be aware that you are crossing it, and then what do you do? Double back? Suppress the side of you that has just begun to make you feel whole and desired and good about yourself again? Life is so short, a roller coaster ride that is over before you can decide whether you’ve enjoyed it, and it is often devoid of surprises (particularly for marrieds). It just doesn’t seem right to deny ourselves that small modicum of pleasure that doesn’t cost us anything. Except when it does.
Let’s take me, for example. For a long time, I thought my inner coquette had taken a permanent vaycay to the south of France, where her talents would come in handy, but I found out recently that she isn’t gone at all; she’s just been imprisoned deep within me. The thing is, when she reared her fabulous and perfectly coiffed head, perhaps I should have just pushed her back into the tiny cell I’ve been holding her in and thrown away the key. That sexy bitch is dangerous! She could get me in a lot of trouble. Now I have to figure out if there is a way I can use her for good instead of evil.
For a few weeks now, I have been involved in a flirtatious sparring match with someone who is not my husband and who is a bona fide hottie. Our repartee has renewed me. But I have begun to question just what the hell I am doing. When it began, it took me by surprise. I even questioned whether he was really flirting with me or was I simply making an ass out of myself. But it has now become clear that ours is a two-way tango, and I fear I might be starting something that I have no control over. There has been nothing untoward, no stolen kisses, no breathless whispers in each other’s ears. But the idea of such things has bloomed in my head. It says somewhere in the Bible, don’t ask me where, that the thought is as bad as the deed. If that is the case, I am pretty well screwed, especially since the Good Book also says Thou shalt not commit adultery. I have a sneaking s
uspicion that Jesus is not very happy with me right now.
The problem is I don’t want to give it up. At the same time, I fancy myself a Good Wife, never having considered being unfaithful. And I am just obtuse enough to think that even now, I would never be unfaithful. But perhaps the flirtation factor opens the mind to the possibilities, and those who are weak cannot resist them. Knowing myself, and the ease with which I can fall prey to a carton of Ben and Jerry’s or a two-for-one special at Target, I should probably handcuff the flirt and send her back where she belongs. My nameless relative may be able to flirt with impunity and not be in danger of crossing the line. Most women may be able to do it, but I don’t think I am one of them.
Damn. It was fun while it lasted. And that inner vixen of mine is really going to be pissed when I slap the cuffs back on her.
Almost groggy with fatigue, I rub my eyes, then click the Publish button. I have no idea if the blog will make any sense to anyone, but it doesn’t matter. It makes sense to me, and writing it has helped me realize what I have to do.
Starting tomorrow, I must keep my distance from Ben Campbell. I have made my choices in life, and although I didn’t obsess over it at the time, when I got married, I promised to love, honor, and cherish Jonah. Flirting with other men doesn’t fit into any of those categories. Although it has been innocent up to now, something changed inside me tonight when Ben kissed my hand. It became more real. I know Jonah flirts with the girls at the office, customers, waitresses. But he honestly isn’t aware of it. And although many women have sworn their mates would never cheat on them only to be sorely disillusioned, I just don’t think Jonah has it in him. It’s not so much his taking a moral or ethical stance as it is a matter of pride. He wants to be the eighty-year-old man in the nursing home who is able to brag to his cronies that he never cheated on his wife. Besides, Jonah is not good with duplicity, even on a minor scale. He once lied to me about finishing off my Death by Chocolate cake, which I’d been looking forward to all day. He pretended that one of the children ate it. Not only did his face turn lobster red, but he tossed and turned all night, woke up in a cold sweat, and confessed to me at three o’clock in the morning. This is not a man who would do well at adultery.
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