Look out Sin City. The Carpenter will be landing any minute now and he is unsupervised. Worse, he is surrounded by a bunch of construction workers attending a “conference” about the concrete industry. Right. Sure. And I’m a Disney Princess who communes with birds and squirrels. Let’s roll the dice on that one.

Basically, my guy will attend lectures and courses by day (assuming they take attendance and he hasn’t been seduced by the casino bling), and by night he will be strongly encouraged to behave badly in a place where public debauchery is celebrated with a slogan I wish I owned the rights to: “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

The Carpenter’s upcoming adventure did prompt a rather interesting conversation over our weekly breakfast date, a Saturday morning ritual at our favourite local diner. It happened to coincide with the “anniversary of us” – the day we became a monogamous couple, followed seven years later by the day I proposed to my man, at which he point he said yes, (‘cause I am such a catch, and I saved him the cost of a diamond).

The Carpenter had no memory of this anniversary because he pees standing up and thus can’t remember a single date that matters. Bacon is a great motivator though (for conversation, not remembering dates). He knows there is a bacon reward at the end of every breakfast date because I never eat it all, so he’ll say and do just about anything to get that last piece of bacon (He always does. This is our idea of foreplay. Don’t judge).

It seemed the perfect opportunity to ask him the obvious question: if temptation strikes for an obscure moment of infidelity, in a place where there are no rules, with peer pressure and likely alcoholic bravery fuelling the fire, would he be able to resist temptation? Fair question. Awkward pause.

I added that I could completely understand if, after 24 really long, arduous, unpredictable years with me, a woman who is nothing short of a challenge on a good day, he wants to have one crazy night with another woman before he dies. Maybe I said “dies” with too much emphasis. Not really sure. Thus, I concluded, I think I could actually understand if the answer was no. Especially in Vegas. Life is short. Marriage is not.

I waited a few minutes for the shock to settle in. He seemed to be struggling to swallow his scrambled eggs. My plate still had four pieces of crispy bacon on it. If this was a poker game, I’d have a royal flush.

“Kel, after this long, you should know I’m not that guy,” he said. But his face revealed he was still slightly suspicious, pondering “did my wife really just give me permission to cheat? … Bacon. So much bacon.”

“Good,” I answered, explaining that this meant I could cancel that order for a fresh batch of concrete to fill the hole I planned to dig in the backyard, Mafia style, should the answer be otherwise. Hey, I understand concrete too. Silence. Wicked grin. Dealer wins. Aces baby.

I handed him a piece of bacon and he smiled, relieved. Fool. What happens in Vegas better stay there. You won’t believe how fast I can dig a hole.

I am kidding. Sort of.


Kelly Waterhouse