Steph Not Stephanie

I haven’t had this much trouble writing a post in a really long time. This is a very different story than what I had originally envisioned. I am so dependent on writing to process that I often form multiple entries about situations, going so far as jotting down notes on the fly when I come up with something particularly brilliant okay. The problem with that is life tends to change, and my entire post is rendered useless. So now I’m trying to process and write and come up with something coherent all at the same time. Good fucking luck.

A while ago, I matched with someone on Tinder. Good conversation, similar world views, all that jazz, with one major minor exception: he’s polyamorous. In my travels I’ve read some things and talked to some people, and even been in some scenarios with people in open relationships (not the same, I know), so I’m pretty familiar with the concept, at least on an intellectual level. On an emotional level, I also know that I am prone to jealousy and not the best at sharing. I was upfront about this, but since we got on so well, we decided to go on a ‘platonic’ date. I’ll spare you paragraphs of details, but since this is a dating blog, I’m sure you can see where this is heading: I caught feelings. I told him as much in a drunk text, and he told me I was a definite fuck yes, so the plan was to figure out next steps over more wine last night. I had all the questions (and none of the answers).

I did whatever I do when I don’t have enough information: commenced Internet stalking research. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but being good at this, I stumbled upon a wedding album. Yep. That happened. Before this discovery, we had (what I thought was) a frank discussion about his current, long-term, live-in partner (whom he had previously called a roommate, but I can make allowances for wanting to get into this stuff at the right time). The marriage itself isn’t what brought the harsh sting of hot tears and the slow, tingly flush of indignation. I was already prepared to navigate the idea of dating someone in a relationship — or willing to go far enough outside my comfort zone to make it work. What hurt was not being trusted with the truth.

Since we were already meeting up, I had a plan. One: drink wine immediately (check). Two: decide if I want to bring it up the instant we sit down, or wait for it to come up naturally in the conversation. I went with an awkward hybrid, waiting about 15 minutes before attempting a segue that fell flat on its face. In hindsight, that wasn’t much of a plan. Fortunately, I was able to express myself relatively well, considering how difficult it can be for me to own my feelings. I was pissed, and I said so. I’ve spent too much of my life apologizing for my feelings, or covering them up/drowning them in booze/smothering them with food. Fuck that noise.

His reasoning was exactly what I suspected when I rehearsed the convo in my head. It can be a lot to expect a stranger to navigate the already (presumably) unfamiliar waters of polyamory, much less to do so with someone who has not just a girlfriend but a wife (no matter how untraditional the marriage). There is also the fact that I stated I wasn’t okay with it from the very beginning. However, we did have that frank conversation, and that’s when it should have come up. I won’t say I feel lied to or even deceived, but there was an omission. Being so far out on this limb, feeling so exposed to the elements already, one tiny gust of wind was all it took to knock me off balance, sending me crashing back down. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s where I belong, with my feet firmly on the ground.