I Blame My Mother That I’m Not a Lesbian
The biggest frustrations in my life have all involved a penis.
I have wished. I have imagined what a life with a woman would be like.
And god damn my hormones because I like the D.
Sigh.
It seems deeply unfair.
Because women are fucking delightful.
They notice things.
You get your hair done and they notice.
You move one decorative object six inches to the left and they notice.
You say, “I’m fine,” with a slightly different inflection and they immediately know that you are, in fact, not fucking fine.
Men?
You could remove an entire wall from your house and your husband would walk in, put his keys down and ask what’s for supper.
I once painted the entire kitchen while my husband was out of town. When he got back I was like notice anything different? Because WHO DOESN”T NOTICE AN ENTIRE KITCHEN BEING A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT COLOUR.
My husband apparently. It was like a game of where’s Waldo, except I became more annoyed with each incorrect guess.
I have girlfriends who know exactly how I take my tea, what mood I’m in based on one text, which person I hate this week and why, and the entire backstory of a situation they were not even present for.
They retain information.
Important information.
Useless information.
All of the information.
Imagine living with that.
Imagine saying, “We need dog food,” and then, stay with me here, dog food appearing in the house.
Having a wife musst be like living with magical Jesus. Men must just think about doing shit then BAM it is magically done.
I often wonder if they actually think they did it.
No reminder.
No follow-up text.
No standing in the kitchen three days later saying, “Did you get the dog food?”
Only to hear:
“Oh. No. I forgot.”
I think about this more than I should.
And I blame my mother.
Because somewhere in my childhood she clearly failed to activate whatever lesbian gene would have saved me from all this.
Was there a form?
A permission slip?
Did she forget to sign it?
Because I would like to lodge a complaint.
I could have had a wife.
A wife.
Do you understand what that means?
There could potentially be TWO people in this house who know where the fucking scissors are.
Instead, I live in a world where someone can stand directly in front of an object and ask me where it is.
“Where’s the ketchup?”
“In the fridge.”
“I looked.”
Did you?
DID YOU, THOUGH?
Because I am about to walk over there and find it in four fucking seconds.
And I will.
Every time.
This is not a superpower I asked for.
I don’t have ketchup vision.
I just move things with my hands when another object is in front of them.
Women have been doing this advanced maneuver for generations.
And before somebody starts, yes, I know.
Women are not magical woodland creatures who communicate telepathically while folding fitted sheets.
Women can be annoying too.
I know.
I’ve met us.
We are complicated as fuck.
I have female friends who can turn a two-word text message into a 45-minute forensic investigation.
“Why did she put a period after okay?”
I don’t know, Brenda.
Maybe she’s furious.
Maybe she uses punctuation.
We’re going to need more data.
But have you ever been sitting with another woman when something happens and you don’t even have to speak?
You just make eye contact.
That’s it.
An entire conversation has occurred.
Beginning.
Middle.
End.
Appendices.
Sources cited.
Meanwhile I could stare directly at a man with every muscle in my face screaming PLEASE GET ME OUT OF THIS CONVERSATION and he’ll smile at me like we’re having a lovely evening.
Sir.
Read the room.
Read my face.
There are subtitles.
So yes, I have considered the alternative.
Not in a casual way either.
I’ve mentally furnished the house.
There are blankets.
Snacks.
Nobody has to explain why there are 14 decorative pillows on the bed because we both understand their purpose is decorative and therefore THEY DO NOT REQUIRE A PURPOSE.
We’d watch a show together and actually watch the show.
Nobody would ask me halfway through:
“Who’s that guy?”
I DON’T KNOW, GREG.
HE’S IN THE SAME SHOW YOU’RE WATCHING.
And then, just when I’ve designed this peaceful alternate existence…
My hormones enter the chat.
Oh, right.
Men.
I fucking like men.
Specifically, apparently, the equipment.
This feels like a design flaw.
My brain has reviewed all available evidence.
It has conducted years of field research.
It has examined the operational inefficiencies.
It has read the customer complaints.
And still my body is over here like:
Penis?
Traitor.
Absolute fucking traitor.
So here I am.
Straight.
Against what occasionally feels like my better administrative judgment.
And Mom, I don’t know exactly what went wrong during my formative years, but I feel like we should at least discuss it.
Because I could have had a wife.
Instead I like the D.
Sigh.