I scheduled a mini gaycation for myself last week, because I’ve been in dire need of a pick-me-up. And because I typically never get picked up, I took matters into my own hands – which I’m still very much thankful for – and cast myself into a sea of lesbians at an Indigo Girls concert one day, and Lilith Fair the next.
There was just one small kink in my plan. And no, not the good kind of kink that maybe seems appealing after you’ve knocked back one or five too many glasses of red wine and your date who’ll one day in the not so distant future be your stalker says, “Oh, someone gave me these handcuffs as a joke.” And you’re all, “You have the keys, right?” And she’s all, “Why do you always take that condescending tone with me?” And you’re like, “What condescending tone?” So she says, “That condescending tone.” Then suddenly you no longer want to be tied down, by handcuffs or a relationship with her, except it turns out your nonexistent tone was *totally* justified because she actually didn’t have the keys and locksmiths charge double on weekends.
But the kink this particular go-round was that I attended each super-homo show with a different hetero married friend, one of whom was pregnant. Because that’s how I roll. And we kind of behaved as if we were together. And by “together,” I mean “together.”
My friend Danna and I inadvertently skipped the Indigo Girls’ opening act because we were soaking up the stunning sunset on the water in Newport, R.I. After she snapped a few photos of me, I pored over them, as usual, in search of double chins, gut rolls, neck creases, boob saggage, thigh expansion and myriad other imperfections. Instead, however, I actually didn’t hate what I saw. “Ohmygod. Look at my arms. The dock’s railing is causing some sort of optical illusion that makes them look deceptively thin!” And Danna was all, “Let me see. Woah, hot arms!” And I declared, “From this day forward, I’m going to go through life with my arms bent awkwardly up and backward as if I’m holding onto an invisible banister.” Enthusiastically shoving her iPhone in my direction, Danna said, “I want to try! My turn! Do me now!”And I was like, “No, do me again!” Then, oddly enough, girls kept coming up to us and offering to take our picture together.
I didn’t get picked up at the show. That probably goes without saying.
The following day, when I met Melanie prior to Lilith Fair, she asked, “Aww, did you curl your hair for me?” And I said, “Yes, I curled my hair for you, and definitely not for all the lesbians in Boston who are here today.” Yet later on, somewhere in between sets by Beth Orton and Cat Power, it dawned on me that my stalker ex was probably somewhere in the crowd, too. For a moment, I was paralyzed by the prospect of seeing the girl who wrote me letter after letter, each one beginning, “This is the last time I’ll contact you over anything.” And yes, the stalking was unsettling and made me slightly concerned for my safety, but what troubled me most was her atrocious and redundant syntax.
Melanie, who just entered her second trimester, suggested that if we saw her, she’d fling an arm around me and then pat her stomach. Lovingly reaching for her midsection, I said, “No, I should rub your belly, and then condescendingly coo, ‘She’s due in January.'” Glancing up and down our row near the stage, Melanie said, “Dude, you just ruined your chances with everyone nearby.”
I also didn’t get picked up at this show. That probably goes without saying, too.
In retrospect, this wasn’t so much a gaycation as it was the antithesis of a laycation. Or, basically, just another week.