GAY PEOPLE'S CHRONICLE FEBRUARY 9, 1996

COLUMBUS EAGLE BAR

Dead Presidents

Sable Coate

BALL

featuring

Christian Fox

Scott Baldwin

SUNDAY, February 18th

(The Night Before Presidents Day)

232 NORTH THIRD ST.

COLUMBUS, OHIO (614)228-2804

EVENINGS OUT

Falling in love again, with the same person

by Beren de Motier

I was talking with an out-of-town friend last Sunday, just chatting, when all of a sudden he asked me how "we" were doing, the wife and I. I was glad to be able to say "Better than ever," but kind of surprised at being asked. After the onset of parenthood, not only does one get used to the children getting top billing in the circus of life, but couple identity just kind of takes a hike most of the time. Conversations just naturally turn to the kids. Their milestones are so specific, walking, talking, creating alternative forms of energy to save the rainforest, whereas after nine years, the markers in a relationship are a little vague.

But the thing about being reminded of our existence as an "us" before it was enough to fill a minivan, was that I started thinking about falling in love and how truly amazing it is that we're still together to tell the story, even if our versions are conflicting.

Of course, we don't often tell the story since we're both superstitious. Talking about our relationship is like mentioning the word healthy around our house, we just don't do it. Just whispering the word, or saying to anyone outside the nuclear family that we've had a reprieve from sickness brings on a household plague of untold proportions. God knows what saying we love each other might do.

I'll cross my fingers as I write this.

We were never an obvious match. In fact, you could go so far as to say we were a virtually unthinkable match. Me, a radicalesbian, leather-jacketed lipstick femme, she ostensibly straight and as wholesome as a warm slice of wheat bread. In the long run I think this only added to our teethgritted determination to stay together no matter what. This was no la-de-da, let's move in on the second date, optimistic meeting of doublemint dykes. We weren't kidding ourselves it was going to be easy.

As I've mentioned before, my swingingsingle behavior was founded on a solid bed of social climbing, self-delusion, masochistic attractions for women who would do me wrong (and were usually already involved elsewhere) and a grotesquely over-inflated opinion of myself. And that was on a good day. I had some decent traits tucked away on the topmost shelf in the hallway closet where I stowed Christmas gifts from family, but, like those gifts, they rarely saw the light of day.

Inexplicably, the wife saw these (as well as my less attractive traits) and decided they were worth ferreting out and that she was just the woman for the job. This is all the more unlikely considering that my wife was not out and I was marching about in parades in black lace bras, that she hated loud, showy people and I was dancing on platforms in cowboy boots and not a lot else, that she was

VICKI LANTZ

PHOTOGRAPHY.

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∞

way into normalcy, and I was, well, not.

Fortunately, she went away to graduate school the day after we became involved. I say fortunately not because we wouldn't have had a heck of a good time if we'd had access to each other, and not because we didn't yearn to be together every day and hour and minute (well, I did anyway) but because we'd have surely driven each other crazy if we hadn't had time to come to some middle ground before we met again.

We discussed. We argued. We compromised. For example, she promised not to groan loudly around friends of mine she didn't care for and I promised to grow out my quarter-inch buzz. I promised not to open fire with a Lesbian Nation promotional speech when I met her family, and she agreed not to make fun of my women's studies degree.

And during all of this working together and compromising, she had to decide if she could lead the life. Come out, stay out, live with what that meant to her and everyone she knew and cared about. And I had to get myself together enough not to drive away the first truly sane person to knock on my door in years.

Not that I didn't try. Most women would have been put off by a girlfriend writing them forty-five page letters. Every other day.

Or the fact that I couldn't seem to contain my long established flirtation habit. Sure I was in love, but that didn't stop me from giving notes to women I hardly knew, describing the erotic dream I'd had about them in my flowing illegible script, just because l felt compelled to prove to myself that I

could.

I was nothing if not a challenging person to love.

The lucky thing was that we fell way in love. Really in love. Boom, zowie, headover-heels foolish in love. We didn't hit that stage at the same time, mind you, we both had to be hesitant enough to make the other person anxious as hell for months at a time and then switch. But the we wouldn't be real lesbians without a little angst.

And when I first knew she was the one (in a Christmas tree lot of all things), I never would have imagined that we'd make it this far. Nine years has naturally seen a lot of change. I can't imagine myself dancing on a platform any more (and after birthing two kids anyone interested in seeing me do it), and she's the one who's out of the closet at her professional job at a conservative company. She's become open-minded about virtually everything girls and boys find themselves up to these days, and I find myself muttering "Don't they have better things to do with their time" more and more. But the one constant is our stubborn refusal to do anything other than continue to love each other.

And that's a Valentine I hope to keep. ✔

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