Seven year itch!

 

Seven years into our marriage, I had an affair.

It began as a typical Saturday night out with my closest female friends. But on that particular evening as we sat, laughed, and talked in a popular New York restaurant, acquaintances were seated nearby celebrating their friend Colin's birthday.

They invited us to join their table for a toast, which turned into several. When the house music came on and everyone headed for the bar, Colin — handsome and playful — took my hand and led me to the dance floor.

In the time it took for his fingers to encircle mine, what had been a quiet attraction became an all-consuming need. I heard the warning voice in my head reminding me that this was dangerous territory: however alone I might feel, I was, in fact, married.

As Colin placed his hands on my hips, I knew with absolute clarity that I was about to cross the line.

Several days after meeting Colin,  I attended a party I knew he would be at. As I had hoped, he asked me to have dinner with him afterward. We talked for hours. He was vivacious. He was interesting and interested in me. He was awake! And he was nothing like my husband.

When he kissed me goodbye, I felt high. Then I ran to the bathroom and vomited until there was nothing left.

Still, I was convinced that Colin was my path to happiness. We had lunch, we had dinner, and we finally made love. And a month after that, as we lay in his bed watching the first snowfall, we threw on our clothes and ran for the park to make snow angels. There, lying on the cold ground and looking up at the stars, we whispered that we loved each other.

And he was a wonderful playmate, up for any adventure. From making reservations at a new restaurant we were both interested in, to hopping a plane at the last minute to meet me wherever my job had sent me, Colin was 100% available: an unflinching, loving companion. 

While the illicitness might initially be exciting, it doesn't take long to crash into the inevitable recognition that what you're doing is bad. 

Sharing details with close friends is asking them to bear the burden of guilt that isn't theirs. And how could I explain to them — let alone myself — that, even as I was pursuing this affair, I was still in love with my husband?

I found myself living an isolated life of lies, born out of a love for one too many. The situation made no sense, shame and shamelessness coming hand in hand.

Confessions, want to share anonymously, drop an email to dpisafox@gmail.com