I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It

The Christmas party had a dessert table; ergo, I was next to it. The host brought over a friend of hers to meet me. He'd seen "The Goodbye Girl" recently and had just Googled me to make sure I wasn't dead.
Well, he said "To see what you were up to," but I think we all know what that means.

We briefly covered how I wasn't dead, wasn't acting, wrote a bit, and then moved on to how I knew the host couple. I said, "Their son and my daughter have been friends since they were three" and then lunged purposefully at some shortbread.

"Oh!" he said, pleased, "Is she around?"

"No," I said, crunching, "she's coming later with my partner."

He smiled and asked, "Is she your biological daughter?"

Being as I was busy finding a dried cranberry which had jetted from my cookie into my sleeve, I nodded yes without thinking much about what he said. Then, it played back in my head. My biological daughter? Was he an adoption lawyer or just gunning for Weirdest question ever asked a former child actress? Then I played back what I had said and realized Oh, I'm a lesbian.

This is not the first time I've been a lesbian; I favor flat shoes and have sporty wardrobe leanings. But, ironically enough, it took finding the love of my life-- but not marry him-- to finally secure me a position on the Sapphic softball time, because of one word:

Partner.

There are a few reasons to get married and I approve vigorously of all of them. If your religion calls you to that ritual, know that I'll be there in proper clothing, actual heels and a tissue for dabbing my eyes when I cry. If you marry because you are unapologetic romantic and proclaiming your love in front of your friends makes you happy, I'll bring two tissues. If you are getting married for tax or insurance reasons, I might even give you a high five, such is my joy in saving money. But here's a reason very few people mention; it's nice to have a title. Everyone understands what the words husband and wife mean. They may not want one-- they may be writing a check every month to one of those they used to have-- but there is no thought involved in deciphering these people's relationship to one another. The world understands these people have entered into a sort of a contract and might have gotten a breadmaker out of it. But if you are, say, us and you've had years and years together, and a child, and have seen one of the people through two books and the other through graduate school and you've collectively had pets but not a marriage, what are you? I refuse to invoke the word "Boyfriend," not the least because Consort, while lively and opinionated, is not a boy and to call him one would imply I don't understand what the word means. I won't call him my "Sweetheart" because I am not a Lladro figurine and I won't call him my "Lover" because I am neither Brazilian nor a Real Housewife. Obviously I'm fond of the word "Consort," but it only works on the page; I use it in person and anyone who understands what a Consort is thinks I'm delusional and anyone who doesn't thinks he has a weird first name.

This leaves me with "Partner," which I actually like. It creates a picture very much like our lives, where we work together, filling in for the other's weaknesses, protecting each other during ordeals, building something worthwhile together.

Of course, it's also the thing many lady-loving ladies call their better-halves as well.

I thought about clarifying this, but couldn't think of a graceful way to say "You do understand my partner is an outie and not an innie, right?" Even correcting his misperception that  I was gay seemed overly political, being as I had just met this man's husband. I chose to do what I usually do around dessert bars, which is eat something. I smiled politely and wished Consort would get there soon, because if I knew anything about my partner, he was really going to like this story.