Making sense

Anne Lamott, on writing ...

"We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason why they write so little. But we do. We have so much we want to say and figure out.”

Thursday, January 8, 2015

I like men AND Melissa Etheridge

It started out innocently enough: my sister and her daughter and I were playing cards the other night. Somehow ... somehow ... we got on the subject of human sexuality, and how, in my opinion (not saying whether it's right or wrong or if it's an informed one, this opinion of mine ~) ... I just happened to say that I believe somewhat that some people, generally women, might, under certain circumstances, choose to be gay. As in, Well, I was married to a man for twenty-eight years, but then I decided, one day, that I was tired of shaving my legs and putting up with him wanting to put his thing there, and, well, he also is just on my nerves over every damned thing and I just decided it'd be nice to try living with a woman. A woman will talk to me and watch the Ellen show with me and hug me when I'm feeling bloated and bitchy. So, I said, yes, I can definitely see how a formerly heterosexual woman might want to check out the lesbian lifestyle.

Again, this is my opinion. OPINION. Suffice to say that I am wrong. Truly, I am frequently wrong about things. And. Because I am a heterosexual woman who continues to appreciate her heterosexual lifestyle, it is true that I know nothing about lesbianism. I very likely am completely talking out of my ass right now.
"Are you trying to come out?" my sister asked me. She was noshing on a ham and cheese sandwich but got the words out rather clearly. "'Cause if you're trying to come out, I will support you."
"Me? Well ... maybe I am," I said, arching an eyebrow. For some unknown reason, I acted a wee bit like I might, in fact, be attempting to come out. (Even though I wasn't. Am not. )
It was then my 25-year-old niece piped in: "Ohhhhhhhhh, Aunt Kathleen!" she said, her eyes wider. She was, literally, bouncing up and down in her chair. "It all makes sense now!"
"Yes, yes it does," my sister, her mother, agreed. "Which explains why you went to that Melissa Etheridge concert with a woman and got so caught up in the lesbianism all around that you and she actually held hands just so you'd fit in."
(It is true that I did do that, but with a hetero friend who is married to a man.)
"And you like Elton John, too!" said my niece, with continued great enthusiasm. "Aaaaand you're progressive ... remember that Christmas when I thought I was pregnant and instead of being shocked you were all, like, 'Kiersten, you have a lot of choices available to you, okay?'"
"And you went to that writers place up in New Hampshire with a bunch of liberals, remember that?" my sister asked. "I kinda thought you connected with lesbians there."
"Birkenstocks!" shouted my niece. "You also wear Birkenstocks!"
And we all laughed and then I felt ashamed of the conversation because in my heart of hearts I do not believe that being homosexual is a choice. Shame on me for pretending to prefer the strap-on penis when what I really want, and have always wanted, is the penis attached to the man who is going to watch football twelve hours in a row and tell me to drink more water whenever the bloat sets in. Shame on me for finding entertainment value in pretending to be gay for ten minutes, or for reveling in stereotypes that do no one any good.
Like I said, I am wrong a lot.

No comments: