Dave held my face in his hands.

"I'm sorry you had to see me like this," I cried. 'I hate it. I don't want you to nurse my broken heart again ......."

"Pfft," he cut me off. 'You didn't buy that Mercedes because you thought it was cheap to maintain,' he said." I always knew exactly what I was getting myself into."

"I just want to be a good wife."

Dave laughed.

This was not the first time Dave had given such a speech. Throughout our marriage, he had comforted me through quite a few breakups with other men. Each time, I tried my best to hide my hurt from Dave. I didn't want to burden him. But some feelings are too strong to hide from a companion of 17 years.

Dave and I happened to have an open relationship. We were in our late twenties and had a drunken one-night stand with a more seasoned couple. We knew they were openly "swingers" (their preferred term at the time), but we intended to have an exploratory conversation and a light smooch. Whiskey changed our plans.

After experiencing a "full swap" (changing partners for intercourse), Dave and I high-fived and squealed with delight as we left their hotel, our voices echoing across the abandoned late-night Michigan Avenue. It was exhilarating to break through the closed Protestant norms we had grown up with. My wife and I had never been very jealous of each other, but once we crossed this line, we easily set each other free. Suddenly, I was allowed to become infatuated with a boy I had identified with for as long as I can remember.

I wanted every moment to feel like the climax of a romantic comedy. I loved the dopamine escalation, the swooning, the anticipation. Intimate relationships with other (mostly) men and (sometimes) women gave me an escape from the drudgery of reality that I would never have had in my marriage. My side relationships, on the other hand, were as passionate and vibrant as Cardi B's collaborative videos.

But after more than a decade of extramarital relationships, COVID hit and crushed the possibility of a new partner; in April 2020, just as the pandemic was beginning, Dave and I sold our Chicago house and lived in eight small towns across the country, Airbnb for a couple months at a time to stay in COVID, which brought me (along with existential dread) a dearth of cute guys. Before I left Chicago, I was dating a younger guy, but we moved and broke up. Dating someone new outside of Chicago felt scary: the new place was too small and the stigma from nosy neighbors was too risky. Plus, I didn't want to go into a grocery store at the risk of getting sick or dying from a virus, and I was even more reluctant to let anyone, or even me, go in there. Dating no longer seemed like an option.

I found myself strangely relieved to be monogamous. This was partly because it freed me from the steady stream of guilt I had created in the past in my relationships with the outside world.

Years after Dave and I began dating others, Dave's interest in dating waned. He didn't mind that I kept dating, but he was tired of it himself. 'Not worth the work,' he would say. Dave craved simplicity, precision. Perfectly folded T-shirts and clean-lined relationships. Dave continued to enjoy the presence of a permanent hall pass and flirted regularly, but rarely dated.

I was always hesitant to tell anyone about our open relationship. Some of our closest friends were understanding and open, but others were uncomfortable. And when Dave stopped dating other people, I became increasingly embarrassed. I was more afraid of how Dave would see me letting my wife play around town than how others would see me. He deserved better. He deserved a good wife, one who didn't need a boyfriend. My anxiety grew.

"I don't care what other people think," Dave reminded me when I brought up these concerns. I was temporarily comforted by his comfortable confidence, until I experienced my next heartbreak. He didn't want to see me hurt, and he understood that these relationships were valuable to me. He comforted me, lovingly likening me to a luxury car, which eased some of my guilt. I couldn't stop seeing other people. The best feeling was worth the worst feeling. I loved the attention.

I told Dave many times that I would stop dating other men if he wanted me to. The safety of our marriage came first. That doesn't mean I wasn't deeply afraid of losing an open relationship. Would I resent Dave? Would I be bored or depressed? Would not being monogamous be a vice I would replace with something else?

COVID left us no choice. But to my surprise, I did not miss dating at all. Dave and I did not spend a single night apart for a year. Sure, there were days when we had to lock ourselves in separate rooms to keep the blood flowing, but who didn't?"

Dave and I were lonely at times, but we never craved extra romance. We enjoyed a simple, quiet, rational life.

Our open relationship soon felt like a thing of the past. Not having had the opportunity to date other people, I no longer had the opportunity to humiliate myself, and my head was clear to consider married life. The pandemic gave me mental relief and allowed me to dig out all the messy relationships and feelings I had been having.

I tentatively looked into open, "alternative" relationships; followed Polyamory's tags on Medium and Instagram; read (free excerpts) of The Ethical Slut. I admired Frida Kahlo and her lovers. I researched the exploits of my ancestors at the court of Louis XIV and learned that the women in my family had been boy-toy addicts since the 17th century; in 2021, Polyamory was all over the media; a Gen Z man I dated just before COVID admitted that "nearly half" of his friends were in open relationships, but I was not yet aware, until I did my own research, that the stigma against polyamory, especially in cis-hetero relationships, was dissolving. (Some have argued that polyamory has long been considered more acceptable in various queer circles.)

In polyamory culture, people talk about "new relational energy" (NRE). When a breakup occurs in this state and the NRE is taken away, it hurts. This is just one of the lessons I learned during my research, but this understanding alone has saved me dramatically from past guilt. Hearing and reading about the experiences of other polyamorous people encouraged me. The emotional trauma I experienced during my breakup with another man was normal, to be expected when one is not monogamous, and did not mean that I was a bad wife. It was incredibly empowering to find others who were going through similar romantic experiences as we were. There are so many polywomen out there who confidently possess the traits I used to hate about myself. Knowing that others were out there and telling their stories helped me transcend my self-stigma. Talking remotely with a therapist also helped me reach that conclusion.

I came to accept that everyone has complex needs. Maybe I needed more than one lover, and that was okay. Maybe I wouldn't need another one, maybe I would change my mind later, maybe I wouldn't hate myself for it anyway.

For more than a decade, I have held myself and Dave to the same patriarchal norms that society, family, and friends have imposed on us. Dave and I were always happy together. I wish I had been progressive and accepting like others who chose non-normative relationships instead of beating myself up for years. I wish I had not been so afraid of "being polyamorous" that I avoided learning about it. And most of all, I wish I had not thought, "Why am I like this?" instead of thinking, "Who cares? Instead, I wonder who will be next? I needed to step back, listen to my needs, and really step away from relationships in order to embrace them.

Recently, I asked Dave how he thought the pandemic had changed our relationship with regard to monogamy. He shrugged.

"Of course it has. Dave had no problem with me dating other people.

I finally did the most feminist, non-patriarchal thing and listened to my husband. He was right. I am wonderful because I am me, not in spite of it. I am Mercedes because I am Mercedes