According to an article on Newsweek.com, “polyamory” is the latest wrinkle in the love world. I can’t even pronounce it, but some people live it. And like it.
Ployamory is when a couple takes other partners, with everyone’s full, informed consent. (Not to be confused with polygamy, generally defined as a lifestyle wherein men take multiple wives, ostensibly at the command of God.)
Here’s an example of polyamory: Dan loves Anne. Anne has a crush on Stan and informs Dan, who gives his blessing for their relationship. In the meantime, Dan falls for an old friend, Pam, who’s living with Sam. Sam gives Pam and Dan the go-ahead, because he’d like to smooch on Anne—if it’s okay with Stan, and it probably will be.
They might live communally, or in separate, fluid combinations. Just reading about the hookups among the group (pod? herd? gaggle?) of polyamorists profiled in the article gave me a headache.
I want whatever vitamins these folks have, because taking care of one man wears me out. (He is, let us note, my lawfully wedded spouse. Or, as my redneck friend Reba Mae says, “We got papers.”)
The Newsweek article said there are more than a half-million openly polyamorous families in the U.S. Polyamory is supported in blogs and social networks, and an e-zine called “Loving More” claims 15,000 regular readers.
Now, I’m no prude. (We all know I am.) I’ve seen the movie “Kinsey” (hated it) and believe that whatever adults do in the privacy of their homes is not my business (as long as children or animals aren’t involved. Then it becomes my business and yours, I hope.)
I don’t care if you’re gay, straight, marry nine times or swing like a chimpanzee. I’m just not interested. But why on earth would you choose to be in simultaneous relationships? Where’s the payoff? When would you nap, and with whom? Whose clothes would you fold? Who would you watch American Idol with? When would you find time to run errands, cut your toenails or eat leftover lo mein standing over the sink?
My husband is the best friend I’ve ever had, but we take time apart: He enjoys fellowship with his friends on Friday night, and I don’t ask him to hang with me at the gym. Thus we juggle those fragile balls called love and autonomy.
With polyamory, forget it. You’re not juggling, you’re dancing as fast as you can. Sounds exhausting to me.
If you want to keep your options open, here’s a simpler, albeit more boring concept: Date. Remember dating? It’s where you go to a movie with Dan on Wednesday, grab coffee with Stan on Friday and play poker with Fred on Saturday. On Sunday you write about them on your blog (okay, you can skip that part).
Proponents of polyamory describe themselves as open-minded, free-spirited and unwilling to burden one person with all their emotional and physical needs. One woman quoted said it’s “sad” when people don’t “realize they have a choice.” Well, boo-hoo.
If you want to live with and/or love with everyone in your zip code, go for it. Doesn’t matter to me.
But to suggest that we who choose monogamy are miserable or unenlightened is both mean-spirited and unfair.
Besides, I never could dance.
Julie R. Smith, who learned to juggle with frozen fish sticks, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.