After a year or so of not having much to say, blog-wise, tonight I find myself with two very important thoughts that bear further exploration on the page: gay marriage and being all jiggly in the mirror at the gym. Maybe if I write more about my thoughts on both of these issues, I will find that they are somehow related, so bear with me Dear Reader.
Generally the music at Xtreme Fitness is extremely loud and tonight was no exception, but we did get a momentary reprieve and I launched into a discussion about running with my friend Crystal. Not an unusual topic of discussion at the gym, but the way she said “doesn’t your wife run as well?” caught me off guard. So nonchalant. So matter of fact. So, uhm, well, weird, I guess.
I’ve never referred to the little woman as my wife in general conversation with straight people, as in “my wife and I went running” or “my wife and I would like to invite you to dinner.” I also avoid terms like “girIfriend,” “life partner,” “domestic partner,” or that old standby, “luscious lesbian lover.” I usually just say “Nancy” and let folks draw their own conclusions. Sure, I’ve made comments about how nice it is to have a “wife” at times, by which I mean someone to cook and go grocery shopping, but rarely do I say this in public, and I’m pretty certain I’ve never said it at the gym, and I think this is the first time anyone has used the term “wife” with me so matter-of-factly, and not just to ask stupidly “so which one of you is the wife?”
With the possibility of Washington State actually legalizing gay marriage, perhaps it is time to suss out a few things, not the least of which is figuring out what we are, to each other, to the world at large. How do we see ourselves? Are we both wives? Is one of us the husband? Are we back to the butch/femme dichotomy? These thoughts swirled around in my mind as the music started again, making further conversation impossible and an hour of xtreme sweat inevitable.
As I sweated, I pondered the wife thing, the legal marriage thing, and then, the “why am I so damn jiggly in the mirror” thing. My train of thought went something like this:
I’ve been at this for six months now, I shouldn’t be so jiggly and lumpy. Good god my boobs are enormous. No one else here has boobs this big. Well, I am wearing spandex/lycra. It’s not exactly flattering. And I am almost fifty. No one else here is almost 50. I’ve got to work harder and eat less. Why am I so jiggly? No one else is this jiggly. I can’t believe Crystal so nonchalantly said “wife.” That’s pretty awesome, actually. And so on. Round and round on the little hamster wheel in my head.
The cynic in me says that it won’t matter what we call each other because this whole gay marriage business will be theoretical at best and tied up in the courts for decades as the crazy evangelicals continue to insist they really do know god’s will.
The idealist in me says that wife and husband are archaic terms that no longer apply in this, the 21st century, that religion no longer dictates who can be in relationship with whom and that the entire institution of marriage as we know it needs to be ditched.
The aging (but occasionally vocal) lesbian feminist in me wonders why on earth gays and lesbians want to imitate a failed heterosexual institution, though the taxpayer in me knows that filing a joint return really would be a most excellent option.
The fat (but fitter) and jiggly nearly 50 year old in me says “get over yourself and sweat some more. Be happy you have your health.”
I’m not finished with this conversation, reader. But right now, my Xtremely tired and jiggly self desires to join my wife in the marital bed.