Same Chip, Different Cookie

Coming out is like... a box of chocolates. No, that's not it. Coming out is like... lily tickled air on a summer day. No, that's not right either. Coming out is like... coming out sucks. It's nerve-wracking and awkward and even for a girl who needs to constantly remind herself that she's not in a movie, this stage was enormous and daunting. But even without a movie script in hand I still did as the celebs do: take advantage of the night hours.*

*This is one of those moments where substances
are part of the story.

Because I don't want to admit that Mr. Beam told my secret to the masses, I like to think it was the dark magic of nighttime that prompted my confessional. But let's be honest - I came out six times in two weeks at the beginning of Sophomore year. And I'm not talking six different pods of people. I'm talking same group of friends, present for every conversation that actually read like a script by the end. "Guys, I have something to tell you," I'd begin after five or six vodka shots. The girls would look at each other. Not this again. "What's up, Parker?" "You're not going to like this." What they didn't like was knowing that they had another thirty minutes before the conversation, the SAME conversation as the previous night, would come to a close - either someone would interrupt, or I'd forget what I was talking about and suggest another shot. To this, they unanimously agreed. The next morning(s) I would awake a little confused, thinking that I'd maybe come forward, but then assuming I hadn't because if I had I would totally remember, right? To my friends' credit, they humored me and let me know, each time, that it was okay if I "sometimes maybe dated a girl." I was not gay. No, that was too declarative. Too major. I wasn't techincally bi. Too trendy. I was "not straight."

When I came out to my dad it was on the eve of our annual Christmas party. I'd always wanted to be the child that comes home from college and uses the holiday cheer to cushion the blow of her sexuality. We were standing in the kitchen sipping late-night wine and he was telling me how his friends thought I'd grown-up so nicely. Apparently that was all I needed. Tears streamed down my face. Little, pathetic sobs made my shoulders shake. Dad, understandably, looked alarmed.

"Bird? You okay?" Clearly no.
"It's just... it's just, I have something to tell you."

He offered the classic and very loving, "Whatever it is you can tell me" while I tried to regain composure. He totally knew what was coming.

"I'm [choke] not [bite lip] straight." I'm not straight? What the hell does that even mean? Scoliosis?

Dad handled it well. He put one arm over his daughter's shoulders and used his free hand to grab a bottle of champagne. We sat in the living room and drank while I told him the story of how I came to like girls.

I still only rarely admit my sexuality in the daylight hours, and even rarer do I use the G word. And I don't even pretend to "be above labels," - I love Seven jeans and Whole Foods as much as the next person. It's not that I avoid the terminology, as I frequently lament the lack of lesbians in my life and make fun of bulldykes and call my good gay friend a queen, but I let on my own leanings by dropping a pronoun or referring to a obviously female ex. Never, "Hi, my name is Liz, I'm gay." Always, "Hi, my name is Liz, last night I hooked up with this girl, but she's probably straight. I'm not, though."

Thanks, Liz, for that clarification.