I can no longer tolerate her depression. There; I said it. Her misery is contagious. I know that a good husband wouldn't admit to such exasperation, but I never said I was a good husband. I'm not kidding myself. At work, I play the happily-married role nearly flawlessly, only removing the facade momentarily to commiserate with a colleague in a similar relationship. At church, I constantly struggle with the disparity between the person I am and the one I want to be. At home, I try to be a good partner, but I find it increasingly difficult to deny myself the occasional Walter Mitty moments, when my mind forces its way out of the life I reluctantly chose to search for the one I want. In that world, a kind word from a waitress can fuel a week of memories from my bachelorhood. A late night west coast ball game generates illusions of what could have been -- had I learned how to hit or throw or photograph or describe a backdoor slider. A compliment from a female colleague might even allow me to forget about the other person in bed the next time we . . . well, when we do whatever the hell it is that we do in bed. And it makes me wonder what would happen if I ever mustered the nerve to have sex with someone I liked.
I'll never have an affair, I'm sure. Perhaps it's a blessing that too many years have combined with too many pounds to make it harder to resemble the handsome, athletic man I was fifteen years ago. Shakespeare wrote that conscience makes cowards of us all; in my case, a graying, receding hairline and an expanding waistline have the same effect.