A 1920's love, wrapped in white gold and diamonds

I was a very lucky girl who got a very lovely engagement ring. It's also very distinctive, but if a pictured didn't give me a way entirely I show you a photograph.

The process of buying a ring was strange, uncomfortable, fraught. Different expectations of cost, different stages of readiness. JB had no idea how much rings cost, and his initial reluctance left me feeling that my expectations were way over the top. Ouchy hurty heart, and embarrassed tears.

But we managed to get through it - JB realised some of his hesitation was to do with his in-between-jobs status (now thankfully remedied), and he wanted to make me happy. So with a slightly awkward heart we set off down the high street to find a ring.

What a ring we found. It's Art Deco, octagonal, and diamond. I never expected the diamond part, always assuming more of a modest sapphire or coloured gemstone. I'd feel terrible about confessing that anywhere else in my life, apart from these anonymous online pages, showing my materialistic side, that part of me that is judgemental, aspirational, conceited and proud. But there you go, I suppose we all have parts of our personality that we'd rather not show to the ones we love. I love my ring, and it was never a certainty that I would get something valuable - I grew up poor, and so perhaps I put more stock in valuable things than someone raised in a better off family might do.

But putting the mercenary details to one side, I keep finding myself utterly transfixed by the sparkles now permanently attached to my left hand. The design I find fascinating, and the glittering nature of real diamonds is blowing my tiny mind. This is mine. I get to have this. 

The weight felt strange on my hand for weeks. It didn't look right in the store. The name fiancee felt heavy, awkward and uncomfortable. I couldn't believe it was all happening. But it did. JB loved the ring, which made me love it more, abad now with the bright clear diamond on my most symbolic finger I can't imagine myself with anything else. My finger is in the cast of a phalangeal Great Gatsby.

I'd never truly considered how symbolic an engagement ring was. Our love is something valuable, something special that you would never normally have. This relationship is the start of building your wealth with someone else - and I don't really mean that in the financial sense. My riches are easy dinners at home with the cats. My bank account is full with Sunday morning fucking and Friday evening cuddles. I'm dripping with the diamonds of kisses. And so is JB.

But I just get to wear the sparkling reminder on my finger.

There's just that little voice...

That says "I wasn't finished yet!"

That little voice that says "it's not going to work, you know, you just like sleeping around too much"

You're a cheater

You were never polyamorous

You won't be faithful

A day will come when you will falter.

When the thrill of the risk is too great to avoid

You will hurt him

You're not ready

You're not ready


Maybe that's what they mean when they say marriage is a big decision. It's a choice that you make to ignore that little voice who seems to have guided you (relatively) well in the past. That false friend.

I have anxiety about getting married, even to JB who is one of the most delightful creatures on the planet. I worry that we disagree too much on too many vital things, that I'm too soft on him or that I'm too harsh. That he's too stubborn but also too flexible. I'm worried that I won't be able to keep the promise I've decided to make to him.

Growing up, truly growing up and leaving childhood and adolescence behind has been the process of realising my dreams won't come true just because I dream them. Sacrifices have to be made to get the life that I want, and even then it won't be the kind of life you see in magazines. Once I thought I wanted that, but now I know I want a huge, messy, gloriously obese life full of love, with all the messiness that brings. That means choosing a life partner that wants to join you on that ride. He ain't perfect, but hey, neither am I.

But still there's that little voice! I find him shockingly rude.

Here's The Thing

JB asked me to marry him on a Friday night, after we'd been to the pub with some friends. I'd made a lemon cake to take with us the next day to a theatre show in a forest with his mother and sister.

As we ate the cake together, JB said "oh my god this cake is amazing. Will you marry me?" I assumed it was in jest until he said "actually, yeah. Will you marry me?" my only possible response being a mouth-full-of-cake "are you serious?".

Evidently he was. I accepted. I'm a polyamorous person who has just committed to a monogamous marriage. Holy fucking shit. JB and I have only been together a year. But it feels so right. He seems like the kind of partner I could spend the rest of my life with. FUCK! How did this even become a thing?

I am so happy to be marrying him. I don't know what will happen. I don't know how I will apply polyamory to my future life. I just don't know. But I have this belief that poly was never really about the sex or the romance. It was about the love, and I feel that I can get that love through platonic friendships. We'll see, obviously, but I am prepared to take that risk. Let's see how we go!