I went out to dinner a few months ago with two female friends, one married with two children, the other single.

Over appetizers, my married friend dropped that she was cheating on her husband with a coworker.

She was blase´about it, as was my other friend, who said she knew of at least four people who were either actively cheating on their spouses or who were the “other person.”

Here is where I’m going to say something crazy — I was less shocked that my friend was having an affair than I was that someone would actively seek to have an affair with someone with young kids (we’re not the sexiest bunch). And that someone with young kids would have the energy to have an affair. Not because it’s especially icky, but because I get worn out thinking of finding and signing my son’s permission slip let alone carrying on a clandestine relationship. 

Also, it was so hard to find someone to marry me, y’all. So hard. How can some women not only find a husband but a side piece as well?

What kind of sorcery is that?

I see myself sometimes and a laugh and laugh (a laugh that resembles a choking sob, but a laugh nonetheless) about how extraordinarily unsexy I currently am. If other married moms are like me, I’m really at a loss to figure out how affairs happen (as it turns out, it seems like the answer is “business trips.”) Do men get boners for women who drive around in minivans with two car seats in the back that smell like rotten death and whose vaginas resemble Freddie Krueger’s face?

To hear my friends talk, I guess so?

So weird.

After dinner, I came back home to my nice husband and cuddled up next to him. I looked at him and thought about how much I loved him. We are at the place in our marriage where I get worried if he takes too long at the grocery store because I need him so badly. But less for me and more for us. (The thought of raising these kids without him is terrifying and sad. He makes our lives so happy.)

It’s not that I don’t understand affairs. I do. They are exciting. My friend seemed excited. I spent most of the next afternoon scrubbing out week-old Tupperware containers and bottles I found in the car (hence the death smell). That isn’t exciting. So, I get it.

I just wish it weren’t an option. That it wasn’t a thing. That it didn’t happen.

But it does. How do you make sure it doesn’t happen to you? To yours?

I don’t know the answer.

But maybe watch the business trips?