The Wild Oats Project: One Woman's Midlife Quest for Passion at Any Cost

252 Pages·2015·1.09 MB·English

by  Robin Rinaldi

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Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page

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FOR RUBY
Author’s Note
This is a true story, but like all memoir, it is only one person’s side of
the truth. I have changed the names and identifying characteristics of
most of the people who appear in these pages.
PART ONE
Death of the Good Girl
Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.
—WILLIAM BLAKE, “The Marriage of Heaven and Hell”
1
The Threshold
IT WAS A RARE BALMY EVENING in San Francisco. Raindrops splattered the long
windows of the second-floor bar overlooking the Castro, blurring its neon signs
and the headlights below. As the city’s offices emptied for the weekend, the bar
filled, the DJ upped the volume, and the waiter delivered the first round of
sweating margaritas. I was the only woman, and the only straight person, in the
room. Chris, a friend I affectionately called my gay husband, was chatting with
his buddies as I reached into my pocket, grabbed my phone, and hit Paul’s name.
I did it without forethought. The few sips of margarita probably helped me
along, but in truth, that night was the perfect storm. It was early, my husband
knew I was out with my gay friend, and I wasn’t due home for hours. That
Friday night in July 2007, some part of me—hidden yet willful enough to pick
up the phone—felt it had license to do whatever it wanted. While I went about
my business, it was tracking, with silent precision, the changes in my marriage
down to the day.
What are you up to? I texted.
Just on my couch watching TV.
Can I come over?
Nothing for five minutes. In that span, I vacillated between anticipating the
thrill of a yes and the relief of a no.
Yes. 2140 Jackson.
The indigo characters “2140 Jackson” threw off a crystalline charge that
snaked up my arm and lit my chest from inside, as if I’d been sent the
combination to a bank vault, or plucked the enemy’s secret code off the wires.
Needing encouragement, I pulled Chris aside and showed him the text. He
was aware of my recent crush on Paul. He also knew and liked my husband,
Scott, but in his world—the microcosm of gay male life in San Francisco—
couples who’d been together seventeen years, like Scott and I had, didn’t
necessarily read disaster into casual flings. Many of Chris’s friends indulged
their attraction to others now and then without seeming to damage their primary
relationship.
He looked from the phone to me. “Are you sure?”
“No, I’m not sure at all,” I said, my eyes darting toward the door. I slid into
my raincoat.
“Listen,” he said, holding my elbow like a football coach instructing a rookie
on the sidelines. “Go slow. You can stop anytime you want.”
“All right. I need to go.”
“Text me later to let me know you’re okay.”
The sidewalk was a sea of umbrellas. I made my way to the curb and shot my
hand up, prepared to wait twenty minutes for one of San Francisco’s limited
number of cabs. A driver immediately flashed his headlights and pulled over. I
gave him the address.
I opened the fogged window and looked up at the starless, heavy sky. The
pavement shone with moisture as we ascended Divisadero Street, the long hill
that separates the eastern and western halves of the city. As the rooftops swished
by, I mentally retraced my steps, taking one last chance to reconsider before I
ruined my life.
I’d known Paul, five years my junior, for a few years. He’d always flirted,
which had seemed harmless enough until about six months ago. I’d invited him
and several others to a party hosted by the magazine where I worked, one of
those five-star-hotel soirees where the free booze makes everyone giddy. I’d
been chatting away when Paul interrupted, lightly placing his fingertips on my
forearm. “I think you might be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he’d
said, eyeing me without apology. Because he’d met Scott, and because I knew
him to be something of a good-natured ladies’ man, I tried not to take his
compliment to heart. I was used to being called cute, sometimes pretty. No man
had ever called me beautiful. I quickened to it despite myself.