I recall having read many tales of women who have been unfaithful, and though I always try not to judge, there is something about the matter I have never truly understood. Its not that I consider myself above anyone elseits simply that infidelity has never tempted me.
At thirty-four, I was a married woman living a perfectly ordinary existence. I attended the gym five days a week, watched what I ate, and took pleasure in looking after myself. I wore my hair long and straight, enjoyed dressing nicely, and I knew I was attractive. People told me so, and it was plain enough in the way others would look at me.
I remember well how at the local gym, it wasnt unusual for a man to strike up a conversation. Some would ask about exercises, others would offer comments thinly veiled as compliments, and a fair few were rather more direct. The same thing happened whenever I went out for drinks with friendsa man or two would approach, insist, or enquire if I was alone. I never pretended it didnt happen. On the contrary, I noticed it all. Yet never did I cross the line. It wasnt out of fear, but simply because I had no desire to do so.
My husband, Henry, was a doctora consultant cardiologistand he devoted much of his time to his work. There were days when he left home before dawn and returned only when we were already having supper, sometimes even later. More often than not, I was left to my own company at home for the greater part of the day. We had a daughter, whom I cared for, along with the house and my own routines. In truth, I could say I had the opportunity to do as I wished without anyone the wiser. Even so, the thought of using that time to betray him never once crossed my mind.
When left to myself, I kept busy. I exercised, got lost in a book, organised the house, watched a series or two, cooked meals, or went walking in the park. I did not sit around searching for voids to fill, nor did I crave outside affirmation. Not that our marriage was perfectit most certainly wasnt. We argued now and then, clashed over this or that, and of course, we both grew weary from time to time. But throughout, one thing remained constant: my honesty.
I never felt the need to live in suspicion of him, either. I trusted Henry. I knew his ways, his habits and routines, his view of the world, and the kind of man he was. I never found myself searching his phone or conjuring up scenarios in my head. That sort of peace of mind makes a difference too. When youre not searching for a way to escape, you dont need a door forever left ajar.
So when I read stories of infidelitynot through judgement but confusionI find myself thinking that its not just about temptation, beauty, spare time, or the attention of others. In my case, it simply never was an option. Not because I couldnt, but because I never wanted to be that person. And with that, I am content.
What are your thoughts on the matter?
