54 - The Three Ps: Pop, Pap, Poly

So far, the mister’s dates have been a bit like frozen pizza: either too hot to touch or still icy in  the middle. But with the woman who didn’t want to meet him exclusively for sex, things suddenly feel different. Monique initially dialed expectations down so far that something could actually grow from there. Something with real dates instead of relentless banging.

And you’ll laugh when I tell you what new hobby the mister has taken up because of her: he actually signed up for a pop a cappella choir for the new school year.

I only believed it because I could practically see the earworm hovering around his head from all the practicing. Rehearsing, of course, only happened when I wasn’t in the house—you can’t require everything of a wife. You have no idea how wonderful I find this—and how proud I am of him. The first time he went singing with Antonina, it was to impress her. This time, he went because of a woman—but not for a woman. He went for himself. That, too, is an open marriage: personal growth through other people—whether you’ve already seen them naked or not.

All in all, the two of them have been spending a lot of quality time together lately. A new and exciting development for all of us. No longer just four hours of sex followed by going home. No more quickies in parking lots. Now there’s romantic lounging in hammocks, philosophical conversations, mosquito bites—and finally, the courage for a first move.

As for me, I’m currently not really in the mood for dating—Leif aside, of course—because I’m fully immersed in my new project: making all these little notes accessible to interested readers. So I’m delighted that the mister is being entertained. It gives me time to write.

And then there was a moment I hadn’t anticipated.

My husband was in the forest when I received an email from my doctor: something about my Pap smear wasn’t quite right—but I shouldn’t worry.

Which is roughly as reassuring as holding a ticking parcel.

Well, thank goodness he wrote, "Don't worry"—otherwise I might have imagined terrible things when a cancer screening comes back imperfect.

So there I was—alone with my fear, with the spiral in my head starting to turn—and I didn’t want to disturb the mister in his hammock. First, because there was nothing he could do at that moment anyway. And second, because I genuinely wanted him to have that (hopefully) beautiful moment. 

So what did I do? 

I called another love. Not Leif—but my best friend.

And because she mixed up the words biopsy and autopsy, it took exactly five seconds before I was laughing in tears on the phone. She suggested we should probably wait for the autopsy report before worrying. Sounded reasonable.

I told Leif later that night—when my head wanted to process instead of sleep. It was a strange feeling: sharing fear with someone so new in my life.

And yet it was comforting. It made me feel that there are three people who love me and carry me—also through difficult times.

On Monday, the doctor gave the all-clear. I get to continue to love openly, think inconveniently, and write for you.

And until then: 

Go to your cancer screenings. 

Love wildly. 

And keep people close who can make you laugh before the autopsy report arrives.