The big fat lie
In the summer of 2006 I found out my wife was cheating on me. How? She told me. In a way she was talking about one of her shopping experiences. Off hand.
Now what does an honest-Joe-doting husband do in such a situation? I didn’t know. Did they have books on the subject? I needed time to research. So when Rita, my wife came out with this earth shattering news, I withdrew. No actually if I remember, in my mind I did one of those kill bill moves with that samurai, but who was I kidding? This woman was good. I even thought I could even see a hint of a smile creep up her face, as she looked straight at me looking for a reaction. No, she was a cold snake, and I needed to get my homework right.
I felt good in a way, not asking the usual questions. Who is he? Where did you do it? Does he have a bigger you-know-what? No, I was not giving her the satisfaction of seeing me go insane. No I’d just ask her whether we’d be cooking at home or ordering takeaway.
The books on the subject however turned out to be more of a disappointment. It seemed until now the cheating bug had only bitten the male species. So there were women venting their feelings of rage, the urgent need to rid the world of testicles. There were women helping other women get over this difficult period. Essentially the-I’ve-been-through-the-same-thing-babes, talk. And then there was help books, aimed at those suckers who didn’t know better. And yet, no male writer seemed to come forward. Men - the rulers of empires, the epitome of courage. Men, who by now was becoming increasingly apparent were chicken, in matters of reporting infidelity.
Great so I had drawn a blank. Now what? I couldn’t possibly turn to friends. Out of the question, I might as well gift myself two horns. The Internet? Well a possibility, but a few hours later, I was more confused than when I started. Views there ranged from “I probably deserved it to maybe it was actually a good thing.” No. I needed a definite plan. One that would make Rita so sorry for thinking that her doing some guy, would go down well with me. Bitch.
The next day as I lay in bed I heard Rita on the phone. Now she was talking to her boyfriend from home. I was slowly sidelined. I had to do something quick else then next time, I’d find the boyfriend in my bed.
Ok enough on this rambling about. I got up. She was sitting on the dining table, spreading peanut butter over her hot toast…waiting. I lumbered on, as if not noticing her. I went to the coffee machine. I got the newspaper. I went to the john.
Ok I was a chicken like all the others. But what could I do? I was in no mood for clearing the air. It was out there, the woman had had sex. She had given little thought to our marriage vows. And before you think that the sex between us was getting boring you have another thing coming. I couldn’t understand it. Why? Why? Why? No. I needed to get hold of myself. This wasn’t the time to be freaking out.
Divorce her. Get even, hook up yourself. Kick her out. All valid arguments, but not the type that had too much originality in them. There had to be something bigger. Something that hurt her like it was hurting me. And it was there, right there. I got up. I flushed. I walked up to her and asked if we should order takeaway.
In the summer of 2006 I found out my wife was cheating on me. How? She told me. In a way she was talking about one of her shopping experiences. Off hand.
Now what does an honest-Joe-doting husband do in such a situation? I didn’t know. Did they have books on the subject? I needed time to research. So when Rita, my wife came out with this earth shattering news, I withdrew. No actually if I remember, in my mind I did one of those kill bill moves with that samurai, but who was I kidding? This woman was good. I even thought I could even see a hint of a smile creep up her face, as she looked straight at me looking for a reaction. No, she was a cold snake, and I needed to get my homework right.
I felt good in a way, not asking the usual questions. Who is he? Where did you do it? Does he have a bigger you-know-what? No, I was not giving her the satisfaction of seeing me go insane. No I’d just ask her whether we’d be cooking at home or ordering takeaway.
The books on the subject however turned out to be more of a disappointment. It seemed until now the cheating bug had only bitten the male species. So there were women venting their feelings of rage, the urgent need to rid the world of testicles. There were women helping other women get over this difficult period. Essentially the-I’ve-been-through-the-same-thing-babes, talk. And then there was help books, aimed at those suckers who didn’t know better. And yet, no male writer seemed to come forward. Men - the rulers of empires, the epitome of courage. Men, who by now was becoming increasingly apparent were chicken, in matters of reporting infidelity.
Great so I had drawn a blank. Now what? I couldn’t possibly turn to friends. Out of the question, I might as well gift myself two horns. The Internet? Well a possibility, but a few hours later, I was more confused than when I started. Views there ranged from “I probably deserved it to maybe it was actually a good thing.” No. I needed a definite plan. One that would make Rita so sorry for thinking that her doing some guy, would go down well with me. Bitch.
The next day as I lay in bed I heard Rita on the phone. Now she was talking to her boyfriend from home. I was slowly sidelined. I had to do something quick else then next time, I’d find the boyfriend in my bed.
Ok enough on this rambling about. I got up. She was sitting on the dining table, spreading peanut butter over her hot toast…waiting. I lumbered on, as if not noticing her. I went to the coffee machine. I got the newspaper. I went to the john.
Ok I was a chicken like all the others. But what could I do? I was in no mood for clearing the air. It was out there, the woman had had sex. She had given little thought to our marriage vows. And before you think that the sex between us was getting boring you have another thing coming. I couldn’t understand it. Why? Why? Why? No. I needed to get hold of myself. This wasn’t the time to be freaking out.
Divorce her. Get even, hook up yourself. Kick her out. All valid arguments, but not the type that had too much originality in them. There had to be something bigger. Something that hurt her like it was hurting me. And it was there, right there. I got up. I flushed. I walked up to her and asked if we should order takeaway.
posted by But Seriously at
11:21 AM
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