The Scarlet Letter II

copyright by Ruth Lampert August 2008

When I was young, "virtue" meant saving your virginity for your husband. Strict guidelines governed "necking" and "petting;" “going all the way" meant virtue went out the window (usually a back-seat window) along with virginity.

Now that I am "of a certain age," you might think primrose paths pose no terror, but in fact only the name of the path has changed; the route itself remains wickedly similar. Today "virtue" means hanging on to a low cholesterol reading with the same determination as we once clung to that other anatomical gem.

(Fortunately, low cholesterol can be regained, and while I have heard that virginity is automatically restored after seven years of abstinence, I have my doubts.)

Thus we see the tenacity of early training, or interject, as we call them in the psychotherapy trade. I acknowledge that as an anti-stress technique I occasionally indulge in foods with a slightly naughty fat gram content or lick my lips over a handful of potato chips. But I exercise control, knowing that regardless of the temptation, setting limits is my responsibility.

This wicked world is full of seducers who will say anything to get me to indulge my baser tastes, but it's my body that will bear testimony to moral lapses.

Refusal can be gracious: "Don't think I'm not tempted. If I was going to indulge with anyone, it would be with you." And I've been around too long to fall for that old line about how if I really cared I would submit; I know that if my saying "no" means the ends of the relationship it wasn't worth preserving. There are plenty of women (or "girls" as we called them back in those benighted days) who, desperate for affection, will gobble down a double order of fries, but I have standards and values thank you.
So while I'd like to say the devil made me do it last night, I have to accept responsibility for my downfall.

Temptations were enormous. The setting was romantic, complete with Italian food, Italian music, and an Italian man. I was properly restrained with the salad, saying no to the Caesar salad dripping with egg-yolk dressing, and demurely accepting the more innocent mixed greens. I began to get a bit wayward with the foccacio, so voluptuously spread with fragrant oil. And then -- I can't explain what happened -- I could feel my resolve weakening, and it was as though a voice in my head was taunting me: "Still the good little girl, aren't you? Grow up! Everybody does it!" And down that slippery slope I went, reveling in deep-fried zucchini, lost in the rapture of fettuccini alfredo, until, passing passion's point of no return I surrendered to the Double Decadent Chocolate Torte.
I had gone all the way.

The man insists he still respects me. And maybe, it’s true that the scarlet letter "S" he placed around my neck stands for "Sweetheart" and not "Slut." He maintains that anything we do by mutual consent is healthy and beautiful because we love each other, and are husband and wife.
What a line.