KEY POINTS:
By now you have probably heard about my affair. I was seen pashing a tall, dark stranger on the corner of Ponsonby Rd and Douglas St, blatantly and passionately in direct view of SPQR clientele in broad daylight.
"Shocking!" was one reaction.
"And she's a grandmother," another one.
Then there was the incident in Foodtown where I was observed fondling the bottom of the same tall, dark stranger in the tinned fish aisle while my daughter was distracted looking for the lemon pepper tuna.
"Appalling!" was the subject matter of conversation one aisle over among the cereals.
"As if that daughter doesn't have enough to deal with," another one.
And then I had the nerve to turn up at my local Italian restaurant with him. Gaetano and Leanne, the fine proprietors of O'Sarracino were unusually cool when we arrived.
I was used to rousing discussions of today's fantastic food, but instead I was left alone with my tall, dark stranger. Had I not paid the bill last time I was here, I wondered, letting the dejection sink in.
Then my tall, dark stranger reached across the table and held my hand and all hell broke loose.
Leanne rushed over to take another look and ascertained that the tall dark stranger was, in fact, my husband.
"We thought you were another man! Not that we thought there was anything going on," she said looking at me pointedly.
"But we are so relieved it is you, not a stranger. You look so different!"
Over heaped plates of not one but three of the desserts my husband was showered with simply for turning out to be himself and not an illicit lover, he paused long enough between mouthfuls of tiramisu, pannacotta and apple cake to mumble: "I'm getting a lot of that lately."
My tall, dark stranger is the result of a $12,075 makeover which I failed to register. First it was the eye operation which restored his sight so well he will never wear the glasses he could not previously function without ($12k).
Then there was the annual removal of the long out of control hair for summer resulting in a rather George Clooney-esque do ($75).
And also the annual "I'm about to go to the caravan" growing of the beard. Quite normal seasonal activity in our house, apart from the shedding of the spectacles, and he certainly didn't get any more attention than usual from me. Until the texts started.
"Who is that guy you were having lunch with today?" followed by "Have you been pashing random guys on Ponsonby Rd again" and "When did you leave your husband?" from a male friend whom I suspect thought he might be in with a chance.
It would seem the man who was affectionately, I think, nicknamed "Shaggy" by some well groomed military guys he was working with recently has graduated to "Shaggable."
And I don't like it.
Apart from the obviously damaging implication that I am the kind of wife who would conduct her affair on Ponsonby Rd, I'm also unused to so many of my girlfriends openly admiring my husband not only to his face, but mine.
I'm envisaging a future scenario where a drunk cougar makes a lunge for him across our kitchen table and I am forced to defend my territory armed with nothing but a bowl of freshly laid organic chicken eggs.
"Do you think you could have warned me you were going to do this to yourself?" I grumbled. "I'm feeling pressured by your new good looks."
"I wasn't sure the miracle of unassisted sight was something for which I needed your permission," was all he said.
Which is why I'm considering my own extreme makeover now that the flattering soft filters have been removed from his eyes and he is seeing me in all my glory for the first time in our relationship.
I figure $12,000 could suck enough fat out of me to finally make that size 12, and I might even be able to fit in a boob job and a chin tuck while at it.
"No you won't," he warned. "I like you just the way you are."
My point exactly.