50 – Polyamorous Damage Control

What is—or would be—the hardest part of an open marriage for you?

Your partner kissing other people?

For me, it's watching someone disappear from their life when they once meant a great deal to them.

Chloé, for example.

From the outside, you could watch her slowly fading away—a quiet descent rather than a dramatic crash. No explosion. No bang. Just a silent disappearance.

And what remains is a husband who feels more than he would probably like to admit.

Watching someone you love suffer—and being unable to do anything about it—is a challenge. Especially for someone like me, who frequently operates in solution-oriented mom mode.

For eight months, Chloé was part of our weekly routine. Part of our everyday life.

And then, suddenly, it becomes painfully obvious that you were not as close to a person as you thought you were.

These are the shadow sides of an open marriage.

The parts people don't talk about quite as often.

To protect—and to distract himself from something he couldn't change—the mister resorted to a tried-and-tested polyamorous coping strategy: Dating new people.

Because once your statistics are ruined, you might as well continue collecting data.

Ever since the incident with the singing Italian woman, the one-hundred-percent success rate had been gone anyway.

So: new game, new luck.

One week. Two dates.

Date number one began with a wonderfully charming opening statement:

"You're really not my type, but let's meet anyway."

Honestly, I have to give the mister credit.

I would have unmatched that person immediately. But he found her intriguing: a singing tantra teacher. Well. The tantra part might have made me curious too.

The date consisted of a Sunday morning walk around the castle. It is difficult to signal "This is an entirely innocent daytime date" any more clearly than that.

The strategy felt immediately familiar.

His conclusion afterward: "I honestly have no idea. She was unconventional and warm—but there was a moat between us."

Since his expectations had already been reduced to nearly zero by the introductory rejection, the experience felt more like a lesson in intimate small talk with strangers.

Date number two inspired considerably more optimism.

They had been writing intensely for three weeks. By that point, they already felt as though they knew each other a little. The conversations had become personal, even intimate. There was a genuine excitement about finally meeting in person.

Never before had the mister gone into a date with so much confidence.

And never before had he returned quite so puzzled.

They spent three hours sitting in a bar, chatting cheerfully. She dominated the conversation. He let her.

But her body language was busy constructing an imaginary barbed-wire fence.

When the mister finally asked whether he could kiss her, she replied:

"Only a little kiss."

At that point, an orderly retreat seemed the only reasonable option.

This woman was looking for a friend.

Just not the kind who kisses her neck.

And yet, a small light began blinking once more on the dating horizon—accompanied by the sound of a notification. Because somehow, "You're not my type" had quietly transformed into: "When can I see you again?" The tantra teacher had become surprisingly enthusiastic about his energy and personality—which, naturally, I completely understand—and had spontaneously decided to get to know him better despite his attractive appearance and athletic body. Apparently, his severe lack of attractiveness was not quite as severe as originally assumed.

And when your husband is lying next to you in bed, staring at his phone and saying:

"The more I date, the more certain I become that you're the best wife in the world."

—then that's a surprisingly enjoyable side effect of polyamorous damage control.