This week, I spent about an hour and a half signing and initialing some 150 pages of documents.

This significant portion of a ream of paper was devoted to a single task, one which would have been extraordinarily refreshing had I not done it once before, approximately thirteen months earlier: buying a house. But let’s be honest; the documents don’t really have anything to do with the actual transaction of buying the house…they are mortgage paperwork, so that the money I need to give to the sellers (who in turn must use it to give to their lender, who in turn pays THEIR lender, and so on ) can magically appear in check form. Upon my agreement to give up my firstborn child, some stem cells, and a few other pieces of my anatomy (Or, to send an exorbitant monthly payment to some bank or other), whoosh! There it was. Over a quarter of a million dollars. Whooooooosh!

And then there it went. I never even saw the check. You’d think, after signing my already carpal-tunnel-surgery-ready hands into a twitching, writhing claw of pen-grasping doom, I might get to see that little piece of paper for just 5 seconds, just to feel momentarily rich before it is snatched away to pay the financiers their due. But no. They didn’t even let me sniff it or anything. The sellers were gone before the first set of paperwork was even signed.

This brings us to today. I have a beautiful new home! And a beautiful not-quite-as-new condo! I have more mortgages than I have jobs! I’ve got more bathrooms (to take dumps in) than I have family members (to take the dumps)! That’s right, friends, everyone in my family can be crapping simultaneously and you could still come over and drop a quick deuce yourself. How’s that for convenience? Maybe I should keep the condo as a summer home…

No. No, no no. I want to sell this condo. It’s the perfect vintage, hardwood-floor, fireplace, elegant-dining-room sort of place that I’ve outgrown so much faster than I could ever have believed before now.

So. Here goes. One last time. Anyone want a condo?

I’m thinking about cheating on my wife.

I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.

I’m very tormented about it. On the one hand, I love her. Cheating men often say “I love my wife,” which I always found disingenuous. Now I understand. I love my wife.

She just isn’t meeting my needs.

It’s been this way for a while now. Things have gotten… predictable. It’s kind of the same thing, over and over, week in and week out. It’s good, don’t get me wrong, but I need MORE.

I need more variety, more spice. I want to try new things, have new experiences. I want her to want those things with me. I want to go to certain stores with her and pick out indulgent, naughty items together. I want to get a little messy, take a few risks.

I think that the build-up and preparation is all part of the fun. I like to spend hours and hours getting everything perfect. But she doesn’t appreciate that. It’s gotta be quick and it’s gotta be the same damn thing.

I’m worried about getting caught. My wife knows that I often work late and she’s used to me travelling for business, so that’s not going to be a big deal. What I worry about is her finding mysterious stains on my clothing or being able to smell the scent of my trysts. When I’m home, will she notice my decreased appetite?

I’ve begun to fantasize about the kind of person with whom I would cheat on her. They would have to be into experimentation, they would have to indulge my particular, um, tastes, and they would have to be willing to travel - some of my fantasies take place in Paris or the Napa Valley. It doesn’t matter if they’re a man or a woman I guess - I don’t really have any hang-ups about that.

As long as they love food as much as I do.