Lost in Translation

(Photo of Max’s backyard, August 2020, her and my pup in the background, gorgeous coneflower her gorgeous ex-girlfriend planted, and my POV. Words from today, February 2021.)

It’s a hard thing to want this life but not be able to settle into it. Try as I might I can’t ignore our differences, foundational.

Max and I have bumped up against some struggles in the past few months. It’s the round hole/square peg conundrum. Different operating systems. She’s monogamous. I’m not. Neither of us has ever dated outside of our own framework. I don’t currently have any other sexual partners because of the pandemic and my own life chaos, but already our round and square existences are at odds.

There are all kinds of rules that I don’t understand, and all kinds of discourse she can’t keep up with. I didn’t know that talking about how hot the delivery guy was is taboo for her kind. The world is full of beautiful people, a hot delivery person is a bonus, no? She didn’t know that limits and absolutes make me squirrelly and look for the exits. They’re red flags for my kind. Nobody gets to tell me what I do with my body, that’s the whole essence of the thing, no?

“How would you feel if I talked about some hot girl on Twitter?” She was sincere but she doesn’t understand how silly that question sounds to me. I’m used to my partners talking about their other partners, and crushes, and attractions in general. I like it! Talking about people we find hot has been a cherished pastime with most of my partners. The whole argument didn’t make sense to me. It didn’t translate.

“How would you feel if I told you what you could and couldn’t do?” I spat while she was driving. I was in the passenger seat of her truck and I was frustrated. I’m like a dog who you let off the leash, and smile while they curl up underneath the same tree anyway. Freedom is more about the concept than the exercising of options, especially now when there is nobody else in my orbit. Why couldn’t she see that? “I wouldn’t want to do it anyway, you don’t have to tell me I can’t,” she replied, slightly wounded. The whole argument didn’t make sense to her. It didn’t translate.

Words mean different things in our different languages, what’s appropriate is measured by different metrics. It’s disorienting. We try to articulate how it feels in our own heads, how it would sound to our friends, how it pushes on the obvious hard spots. We try to translate. There’s no fucking google app for this. There’s a lot of “I love you!” And a lot of “I know!!!”

We do love each other and the details are just details, and if we can get out of our heads long enough we remember why we’re here in the first place. We find a common language and a common ground. Our day to day is so healthy and healing and good for both of us. We compliment each other so well. These are the every day conditions, the important things.

It took her time to learn that I may be poly, but I’m also loyal like a mother fucker. And it took me time to realize I really like not sharing her with anyone else.

In spite of this we chase our tails again in the same argument. I sigh, “But it’s going to get worse, you’re going to get sick of this.” She looks at me, long and thoughtful. When she speaks it’s soft, “Or it’s going to get better, because we’ll learn how to handle it and it’ll get easier over time.” I’m embarassed I hadn’t considered that. I hold her hand.

I want to settle into this. I want to believe.