One of my earliest memories involves infidelity. It’s a fact I’m often reminded of when watching TV movies, a disproportionate number of which — especially those made in the ’80s and ’90s — feature straying spouses. The monotony of all that adultery eventually wears thin, or simply strikes you as absurd, which is one of the reasons I liked Passions, recently reviewed at Cranky Lesbian.
This isn’t the time or place to rehash what happened then, when I was between three and four years old. It involved relatives, and I was present as my mom comforted the non-cheating spouse on the day it all came to a head. Lots of grownup things were going on that I didn’t understand, but I knew that someone I loved was very sad. It turned into a months-long drama whose reverberations shook our extended family for years to come.
Marital fidelity was second nature to my parents, who started dating as teens and are still together (and almost disgustingly in love) in their early sixties. It was ultimately no different for me, but as Jakob Dylan would tell you, “It may take two to tango, but, boy, it’s one to let go.” The pre-Obergefell relationship I expected to last forever ended like a Patti LaBelle/Michael McDonald duet. That was when I discovered I was a little too good at it: my faithfulness continued long after my ex left.
Moving on with Crankenstein was complicated even after I’d given myself permission to pursue another relationship. Though I was attracted to her and greatly enjoyed her company, I still felt married to some extent. It wasn’t anything I tucked away — that wouldn’t have been fair to her. She would’ve sensed it regardless, maybe never more clearly than during Into the Woods, or on an earlier date when we first spent the night together.
We were at my place, which still felt like my marital home, eating dinner off my former marital plates. Later we’d inevitably retire to what I’d once considered my marital bed. Remembering how furious my ex had been at the thought of so much as seeing a blanket Almost-Girlfriend once innocently sat on, I’d already asked Crankenstein whether she cared about those things. She didn’t, but I bought new sheets and a new comforter anyway, and repainted the room and hung curtains. None of it assuaged my feelings of existential displacement, of wandering lost in the cosmos.*
That night, as the moment drew nearer, I started feeling off. My temples were heavy and seemed to throb even as I was lightheaded, like I was about to keel over. I was simultaneously overheated and sickeningly clammy. A nauseating pain radiated in my torso, like someone had punched me in the back so hard it rattled the top of my stomach.** I’d gotten up to retrieve something from the kitchen when time suddenly stopped. Then I came to and was confused to realize I was on the floor, a concerned Crankenstein hovering over me. “You’re back!” she said, audibly relieved.
Where had I gone? She explained that I’d passed out, hitting my face on the stove and landing with a thud on an unforgiving ceramic tile floor. My face was bleeding, my skull was ringing, and Crankenstein was in doctor mode, examining my pupils and asking questions to gauge my alertness. It was too soon to make sense of which pain was worse, that of my physical injuries or embarrassment. I got up to deal with the wounds on my own, not wanting to feel like a patient of hers any more than I already did. She excused herself to check calls on the porch, leaving the door ajar in case I needed to summon her.
In the bathroom, as I staunched the bleeding and commenced self-ministrations with rubbing alcohol and Neosporin, I pictured my ex torturing a voodoo doll and cackling at the results. Or, more likely, scornfully calling me pathetic. Then I vomited. When the nausea subsided, I brushed my teeth twice and rinsed with Listerine and tried not to become mired in self-hatred. Crankenstein and I swapped theories in the coming days. She provided a medical explanation for what happened, while I worried that I’d felt guilty and anxious about moving on from my previous relationship. Whatever its cause, the episode wasn’t repeated, though it took weeks for my face to heal and not hurt when we kissed.
Before we got too involved with each other, as we tried to assess our compatibility, Crankenstein and I had the usual discussions about relationship rules, preferences and expectations. When I asked a hypothetical question about infidelity — “If you found out your partner cheated, would you confront her or would you confront the other woman?” I was gratified that her expression betrayed bewilderment. It had baffled me when my ex, whose insecurity, jealousy and possessiveness caused a lot of heartache for us both over the years, angrily and persistently vowed to get into a physical altercation with the other woman if I ever cheated.^
For one thing, I never would’ve done that to her, which she should’ve known better than anyone in the world. But it also seemed like a misdirected and appallingly Jerry Springer-ish response, for the same reasons Crankenstein cited: It’s up to your partner to guard your relationship (not to mention their zipper) against outside threats. I shared her philosophy, and whatever dangers our union has faced in almost a decade together — some quite serious — I doubt that either of us has ever fretted about adultery.^^ If the kitchen fainting incident taught her anything, it’s that I’d probably lose consciousness and fall down a flight of stairs if I seriously pondered straying.
* I wasn’t alone in my uncertainty; Crankenstein was dealing with baggage of her own.
** That pain was something I regularly experienced pre-Humira, and I was only 31, so I wasn’t worried about a cardiac event.
^ When she got to that part of the post, an amused Crankenstein sang a line — “Try Jesus/Please don’t try me/Because I fight” — from Tobe Nwigwe’s “Try Jesus.” She undoubtedly finds the idea of anyone scrapping over me genuinely hilarious.
^^ We expect each other’s minds to wander — Crankenstein’s perhaps to Gloria Stuart in Titanic — without the rest of us following suit.