Once Again, I Wish I Were a Lesbian

I still want to be popular, or at least compelling

Last night, we had two new friends over. I’ll call then Scarlett and Melanie. I’m not sure we’ll be besties, but they represent what I aspire to.

They know a lot of folks around here, and they are the first guests in our home (aside from family) since we moved in early 2019.

These two were the first lesbians at our church, a congregation known for tolerance, inclusion, anti-racism and LGBTQ+ support.

These ladies moved here and got invited simply everywhere. I’ve been invited, er, nowhere.

I’m shocked to discover it turns out I’m missing yet another key element of social success: I’m deeply ordinary.

Melanie and Scarlett are Maine Coons in a club of cat lovers. I’m a scruffy, gray shelter tabby.

Meanwhile, I’ve volunteered for the mat group, the events committee, the coffee setup, and the holiday committee — and I played Mah Jongg for months every Monday afternoon!

Melanie and Scarlett have volunteered for nothing, nada, zip. Well, they do belong to Old Wise Lesbians (OWLS).

People Are Shallow

Maybe I’m outraged without cause but then again, maybe humanity is disappointing, shallow and vapid.

Considering the Kardashian empire, yes — humanity is superficial, bling-loving and celebrity-obsessed.

Here in the middle of nowhere, a couple of lesbians are novel, lemme tell ya.

I have to admit, I am envious. I am a seething ball of puzzlement about my social obscurity and lack of invites. Worse, these emotions are bubbling to the surface because last week I invited myself to a party.

I was sober. I didn’t mean to, I just blurted out:

“Oh, that sounds fun!”

It was in the midst of Scarlett being invited to something, natch.

Now, I’m headed to a garden party. The hostess, who is Southern, claims she’d love to have us — but you know how these Southern gals are. Who the hell knows what they’re really thinking?

I don’t drink, so I can’t numb my shame with vodka. I’m gluten-free so I can’t eat fun things. I’m childfree, too, so there goes bragging about the grandkids.

The Tired Volunteers Club

I will continue picking up the trash after Trivia Night is over, but I’m done volunteering at the church. My motivation for cleaning up is pure: I am younger and more nimble than my brothers and sisters.

No amount of self-sacrifice will yield invitations, unless my spouse and I pose as a transgender couple of ex-CIA agents.

I believe it was Emerson or Wordsworth or Thoreau who wrote:

“No one likes a boring loser.”

I’m paraphrasing, embellishing, and fabricating but the gist is: people want to be around shiny, sparkly people who shed glitter as they prance through life.

And that goes double for lesbians!

I’m shedding dead skin and cynicism as I trudge through life.

Will this homely tabby cat ever get an invite? Must I win the lottery and invite everyone to party on my private jet?

And why am I always surprised when it comes to social status shenanigans?

Huck Finn Wasn’t Wrong

In Tom Sawyer, Huck complains to Tom about attending church, saying he returns home afterward and cusses for twenty minutes straight just to get the taste back in his mouth. Then he fires up his tobacco pipe.

Church service is essentially a mob on their best behavior. Acting well-behaved makes me chafe, and then there’s the exhaustion of picking an outfit appropriate for the season.

I have a palette of interesting hobbies, like antkeeping and eating a solely carnivorous diet, but my idiosyncrasies are neither exotic nor intriguing to others. Rather, normies cringe and back away.

I practice not talking about my interests, but the real me seeps through like a spot of blood on a speck of Kleenex after a too-close shave.

I stand around before church sipping on free decaf, interviewing others about their recent trips, grandkids, and pickleball game. I feel I’m wearing an itchy costume that doesn’t complement my best features.

When I get home, I cuss like Huck. And once again, I wish I were a lesbian.

Just Give Me a Role, Any Role

I’m in a play right now. I have two lines, and I know exactly what is expected of me. It feels fantastic. Sure, I could mess it up but at least I’m 100% certain about how to act.

In regular life, I’m often wondering what to do, how to dress appropriately, and whether I just put my foot in my mouth. The only good news is that aging is my ally. Every year, I care less and less what people think.

I have many horror stories from my working life when my job was highly ambiguous and I wanted to commit hari-kari or homicide.

I’ll lean in to this acting thing, and paint the props whatever color they tell me to.

Today, when I go to church, I will calmly observe my emotions whilst greeting someone who is new by welcoming them as I wish I had been welcomed — as if I were a celebrity or a lesbian.