When I was around 16 someone once told me I’d be driving a Volvo, toting around a few kids and a dog, like a fucking page out the LL Bean catalog. He said that is what he envisioned as my future. I told him that was the furthest thing from what I wanted in life. Little did I know he was practically forecasting my future with better clairvoyance than Nostradamus. I look at what I have and I guess the Gemini in me is split fully down the middle. One half, a Stepford wife wannabe, is so very thankful and feels such luck to be surrounded by the love of children and a doting husband. She loves the frou frou Christmas trees and family dinners. The other half, is definitely an art geek, obviously a lesbian, wants nothing to do with this life and is pawing to get away like a cat being given a bath. She wants to travel and live off of her art.
How does a person become so divided? How is it that I fear that either one might take over the other? I feel like I started out as this hippy art chick and ended up a Stepford wife, but how? Where did I get lost along the way? I guess I wanted very much to be normal and find a place where I was accepted. High School certainly wasn’t the place. College was better, but I didn’t go far out of my comfort zone, even when I hung out with my bi friend at the local gay bar. ( I always seemed to have bi or gay friends I didn’t have attractions to.) I lusted after women, but the ones I liked were femme, and I had no gaydar to cull them from the crowd without raising my freak flag. I also must have hid my freak flag a bit too well when hitting up those places. I only remember one time where a lady was outwardly hitting on me and I picked up on it. Plus, they were not “Lesbian bars” which does make a difference, I think. I don’t know. I don’t know the rules or if there are any on who hit on who or what when it came to that sort of thing. I was too naive, stupid, scared and inexperienced to know how to go about finding someone. I didn’t want to give the “wrong impression” whatever the fuck that was.
I had a few brushes with women and one hot night of fun, but I hadn’t yet embraced my desire. I was so afraid of what that might mean. I just didn’t want to be bi and I was so afraid to jump the fence. Even now, I freak at the thought of becoming a lesbian. Like someone is going to hand me a strap on and nail clippers and welcome me to some club where everyone is staring at me. Why am I so fucking homophobic of myself? Art girl is pissed and really fucking horny.
So I dated hot guys, pretended that I was thrilled by their manliness and had decent sex. But it was never great. Until I met my husband. We connected and he seemed very aware of how to keep miss Emo at bay so I decided that he could fulfill me and that any yearning I had for women could be satiated by our very full and spicy sex life. Problem was, while he was good at many things, he still wasn’t a woman. I thought I was just bi, so I could probably get over that. Or so I thought. Anti-Conformity girl wasn’t buying it. It became even more apparent when I was pregnant how much I desired women. It’s like the hormones seemed to amplify what I was already feeling. By my second child, it was all I could do to just keep those feelings at bay.
So then I also have the Stepford wife, who vowed to be with this man till the end of time. I promised to stick it out till the end and I’m not much on backing down from my word. There’s something about the scary perfection in my life that is unsettling. It’s scary because as soon as I pull away any part of it, I feel like it will all fall down. The image would shatter right along with it. No longer would I be the mommy who makes those darling cakes or the sweet wife, but I’d be the homewrecker, the LESBIAN, the heartbreaker…. Who wants that on their life resume? But at the same time, I see the other half of me pouring a drink and waiting for my life to get over and I wonder, is it worth it? Is it worth keeping the title of Happily Ever After over the mantle if it’s not entirely true? Who says ” Live your life and be sorta happy?” or “Give it your almost?” I just want to tell Mrs. Stepford to shove it and that I don’t need that “perfect” life and that it’s not really perfect anyway, but the fear in me keeps me hushed like the questioning child in Sunday school. I know that as soon as I open my mouth and fess up, this glossy gig is over. Then it gets real. Really real. Ugh!