I’ve been watching queer weddings and I shouldn’t. And yes, they’re “weddings” not gay weddings, for those lefties who are sensitive about labels, but I make the distinction for context. You see, I have no interest in straight people’s marital ceremonies. They are for the most part ostentatious displays of personal status more than the joining of two people in love, in my opinion. That’s not to say queer folk aren’t prone to the same things, the ones I’ve seen that might seem that way to others, seem whimsical or campy to me, you might disagree, I dunno.
I’ve been weeping buckets. I’m not normally Moaning Myrtle. It’s taken me a couple hours of inner wtf to figure out some of the whys. I’ve settled on acceptance as the core of my verklempt. Or, more to the point my struggle with not having it growing up. I’m not talking about routine affirmations we get for “doing a good job” or being a nice person. I’m talking about having that someone whose seen you at your worst, and likes you anyway. That should be part of a loving relationship, and it might be at least during the honeymoon. The fortunate get it from their families as long as the will isn’t in probate.
I’m excited at the prospect that I could get married if I wanted to. That’s tempered with the knowledge that there is no-one more unsuited to living in the same house with someone than I am. I am monumentally difficult to be around for any length of time. A gazillion hours in therapy later, I’m reconciled to what that means for my personal life and I’m comfortable in my own skin about it. I’ve had my share of romances, all with varying degrees of satisfaction. No regrets there.
They say there’s a lid for every pot.
So far, my lid’s hid.
Olly olly oxenfree.