It’s that I was so closeted for so long and didn’t even know it.
It’s that I cried at videos of civil unions, identifying so passionately as an “ally” all those years.
It’s that I think boyish women are hot, and feminine men make me melt, and that gay or straight, boy or girl, aren’t the only choices on the menu.
It’s that there is no menu. And what encompasses possible for my kids has less to do with “normal” and more to do with the amazing, real people in their lives–among whom are my beautiful fiancée and the three awesome teenagers Aviva already calls her sisters.
It’s that I’m shy around butch women and strong around straight men, the same me if not so much more so as I was all along.
It’s that it’s more fun being out, even the hard parts, which don’t vanish by any measure yet don’t carry the burdens of anguish or secrecy, either.
And surely it’s spending a week on vacation with my girls and their father, my ex-husband, that has me reflecting on such matters.
Beyond the alphabet soup of acronyms, beyond the limitation of labels, beyond the sanctions of what I once sequestered in the faraway, wistful compartment of impossible–that is where I get to live now and for the rest of my life, however long that may be.
May I never forget it.