I woke up in my ex's bed one morning this week, needing to run home and change before class. As she frantically pushed me out of bed, fearing that I was going to be late, I reassured her: "It's fine, I already know what I'm wearing."
I care about my clothes, a lot. I obsess over every last strand of my curly brown hair and fixate on picking out the perfect pair of shoes to compliment one of the 30 plus sweaters in my closet.
I love wearing heels and short tight dresses, and, admittedtly, I have had a serious crush on Patrick Dempsey from the time that my best friend and I stayed up all night watching all nine episodes of the first season of Grey's Anatomy.
I occassionally stop in my tracks when I see a hot guy walking down the street and struggle to produce words when there is a shirtless man with a six-pack in my line of sight.
I am a jap (Jewish-American princess); I am a girly girl and an appearance perfectionist. I dress like you; I talk like you with my annoyingly unmistakable Long Island accent and sqeaky high-pitched voice when I get worked up, and, like you, I would love to come home at night to someone to love. A girl, mind you. A hot girl. A feminine girl. A girl who dresses like me, talks like me and is as completely addicted to eating and shopping and TV watching as I am.
I will concede that I have an all-consuming crush on Ellen DeGeneres, but who doesn't really?
I want love and friendship and happiness, a relationship not unlike the one that you have always dreamed of. I fantasize about my wedding and picture myself walking down the aisle at the New York Public Library in a Vera Wang poofy ball of tulle similiar to that of Kate Hudson's character from Bride Wars.
I have the names of my four children all picked out, and I can guarantee you that they will be clad in matching JCrew Crewcuts outfits and haircuts rivaling those of Suri Cruise.
People try to place me in a box. I meet someone, mention a girl that I'm seeing, and all of a sudden she sees me differently. I am categorized; I am stereotyped and I automatically become "different."
I understand this need to classify, however, because I do it to myself. I have tried for years to find some way to fit in, find some way to find a common ground with people with whom I have this "thing," this "otherness," in common. I have questioned whether or not I was actually gay because I felt so isolated, so "different," from those who were apparently so much like me.
I'm tired of trying to identify "gay community," and, in my experience, this "gay community" doesn't identify with me either. I know that there are people for whom this community provides a welcoming space and sense of pride and togetherness, and, of those people, I am truly jealous. But my community isn't a meeting of lesbians discussing gender stereotypes and feminism; my community isn't gay jews discussing what the Talmud says about homosexuality; my community is the mob of housewives that show up to a sale at Bloomingdales (Forty Carrots froyo in hand).
I don't feel it necessary to fit in with a group of people who are said to share a similiar "identity," because being gay is just barely a part of mine. That does not mean that I am not willing to support their advocacy, but, similar to everyone else, I am more than my sexual orientation, and, though I struggle to admit it, I am more than the way that I dress.
Being gay just says a lot about the partner that I'm looking for, and that really is such a small part of who I am. I am the company that I keep, I am a future neonatal surgeon, I am a loving sister and I am a defiant daughter. I am not a spokesperson for Jewish lesbians everywhere, and I have absolutely no desire to be. I am me, only me, and yes, I do still care greatly about how you see me, but maybe just a little bit less than I did yesterday.
