The moving guy in August: “So where are your sister and your boyfriend?”
Me: “He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my roommate, and my sister is with my parents.”
Random nutty lady in Perkins: “Your boyfriend is very tall.”
Me: “He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just eating lunch.”
Nutty lady: “Well, he’s very tall.”
My mother: “So is Don being a good boyfriend?”
Me: “Christ, mom!”
Mom: “Sorry, you think that’s all offensive. Is he being a good non-boyfriend whateveritisyoudo?”
Friend: “So is Don like your boyfriend now?”
Me: “You know, we’re not living together more now than we were when Claire was in Paris. Why does everybody act like it changes things?”
Friend: “But you’re together, right?”
Coworker: “So, is he your boyfriend?”
Me, a little too quickly: “No.”
(Two days later)
Coworker: “Your partner is picking you up later today?”
(That evening, to Don)
Me: “So we’re a gay couple now. Can we be boys?”
Don: “We’d probably have to work out.”
Dear world,
Don is not my boyfriend. I’ve had one boyfriend. That wasn’t a good thing. I try really hard not to repeat mistakes. Can we all get over our inability to cope with me being 50% more practical about life than 95% of you? Yes, I am just cold and dispassionate enough that practicality dictates how I do things. No, that doesn’t make me feel dead inside. I like being me. I laugh maniacally with great frequency, because I feel filled with…laughter, of a maniacal sort. But it’s maniacal because I’m mean, not because I’m dead inside.
And I don’t care how you do things, either. If you’re happy, then it doesn’t matter to me. Go forth, be happy. Leave my strange happiness alone.
Screw it. The next person to drop the bf bomb where I can hear it gets eviscerated. Maybe not right away, maybe not in public, but I’m keeping track, and laughing.
If you’re confused, I’ll explain, but can we all keep me out of your pigeon holes please? The pigeons need them.
Sincerely,
Not Don’s girlfriend.
P.S. Most of the above quoted dialogs are actually composites/rephrased for comic effect. For example, I don’t think I’ve ever actually said, “Christ, Mom!” to my mother. Maybe I should…
Anaea Lay 