3 - A Goodbye Kiss to Monogamy

Which of the three options would you have chosen?

I went with number three—the grown-up version. Unfortunately, there wasn’t an instruction manual with step-by-step guidance. I quickly realized that making a decision and actually acting on it couldn’t feel more different. I tried to approach the situation as calmly and rationally as possible and told my husband that the charismatic stranger from the climbing gym and I had exchanged numbers.

In the thirteen years I’d been living here, I had never written or read so much French. Good thing my mother-in-law didn’t know I suddenly felt inspired to brush up on my French—not for the family, but for an Italian-speaking Swiss man. Twelve years of marriage to a Frenchman had never gotten me to willingly make a phone call in French. And now, I found myself delighting in every single word.

After countless text messages, we arranged to go climbing together a week later. Have you ever gone to a first date wearing sweatpants? I hadn’t—until then. But clearly, this was a time for trying new things. And maybe activewear is the most honest form of a dating outfit: no false promises, just a thin film of nothing and sweat. Whether in sports or in dating, honesty doesn’t get much purer than that.

At our first meeting, I was more nervous than I’d been in years. Despite the fact that it was just a climbing session—literally secured with ropes, romance with ropes usually looks a little different. Tied up in bed, maybe.

This man stirred something in me—a storm of emotion that was both thrilling and overwhelming. His remarkable ability to express his feelings didn’t miss its mark. There was nothing cheesy about it. It was direct, raw, and disarmingly sincere. I was touched to see I could bring out that depth in someone—and at the same time, it scared me.

From the very beginning, I had told him I was married and that a fling was out of the question. But before I could bring myself to have that long-overdue conversation with my husband—the one I’d avoided for years because nothing had ever forced my hand—I needed to be sure that this man, who was so different from me and yet shared so many of my desires and interests, was truly worth it.

After that first climbing session, which was full of subtle, tentative touches, I gathered all my courage. I gave him a cheek kiss goodbye, as is customary in France. But that simple farewell wasn’t enough for him. He gently held my face in his hands, placed his lips on mine—and then I kissed him. I needed to know what this man tasted like. What freedom tasted like.

That one kiss was all it took to seal my decision.

From then on, we saw each other twice a week at the climbing gym—where nothing could happen that crossed my boundaries—and yet we spent time together. A practical side benefit? If you came out sweating, you could always blame the workout.