The sense of shame that I feel cannot easily be explained; nor can it be wished away. I live in a suburban middle class neighborhood where professional men, accountants and attorneys, mow their front lawns at weekends in shorts and sneakers as a sort of concession to physical exercise. The wives are mostly overweight and forty something; much of their time is spent wondering whether some younger, trimmer, more appealing woman isn’t keeping their husband busy. They worry about their weight and their bulges and the calories that derive from the frequent cocktails; so they buy themselves brand name jogging gear and make a public point about trying to lose weight.
Not that it makes much of a difference. Their husbands heads are well and truly turned.
My own husband beats me at intervals that are determined by his mood. If cause is not given for chastisement one will be contrived anyway. I suspect that the beatings derive from the frustration of being stuck with me. He knows that my suspicions about his infidelity are not nearly sufficient reason for me to walk away.
