The warning signs were everywhere. First, the vegetarianism. Then, sleeping with all my friends. Then, before I knew what hit me – drum circles and naked mud dancing. The full-fledged lesbian canoodling came so effortlessly, I didn’t even notice it was happening. When did I learn the difference between seitan and tempeh? Why don’t I balk when people inquire about my chi? The housewarming dinner had to be a vegan potluck because yogis have more dietary restrictions than Gwyneth Paltrow on a lunar colony. And why do I also think every teenage boy, Midwestern soccer mom, German woman and hipster with an asymmetrical haircut I see is actually a lesbian? I don’t know, I just do. Sue me. If these people were straight they’d be at a Curves spinning class, making scrapbooks or mass emailing chain letters about sisterhood to their “girlfriends.” They have no business traipsing around my neighborhood with their menacing jaw lines, University of Michigan sweatshirts and hot-for-teacher glasses!
But today my fate was sealed. I woke up this morning, after a night of wayward spooning with my girlfriend of 7 months, whom I have lived with for 3 of those months and said, without the faintest hint of irony, “Hi baby. I missed you in my sleep.”
It appears I’ve become that person. I could blame this on the getting-hit-by-a-car thing – I’ve certainly been attributing it to many other unusual behaviors I’ve noticed recently, like bursting into tears because the bus was late and having unseasonable cravings for tater tots. But I think this morning is evidence of something bigger, something much more encompassing, like finding lesbian subtext in hyper-masculine films like Pulp Fiction and the Aliens trilogy (Thank god for my B.A. in Creative Writing!).
I believe that love is altering my willingness to mock people.
It would be most hypocritical to do so, since I have become the person I was once so quick to mock. For instance, I find myself googling things like “cute kitten pictures” (not just kittens, but cute kittens. I don’t have time to bother with average-looking ones.). I have read three New York Times Best Sellers in the past month. A few months ago, I wouldn’t have read Harry Potter if Dumbledore himself had come to life and beat me with a cubic zirconia-studded tiara. I’ve chanted and hula hooped in public. I’ve memorized the Sanskrit names for yoga poses and actually corrected people in conversations. “Triangle pose? You mean trikonasana?”
Many of these proclivities could be by-products of the new-ageyness my parents sloughed off on me through their years of drinking peyote smoothies and adding leather fringe to everything, but I think it’s mostly the love.
The truly baffling thing about all of this is that I (not-at-all secretly) love it. Bring on the matching Winnie the Pooh checks and joint trips to the gynecologist, I says! Why yes, I’d love to sing back-up vocals with you to Extreme’s “More than Words” on karaoke night! And at Christmas time, you better believe I’ll be sending all of you cards with snowmen holding tumblers that say, “Have a Bloody Mary Christmas” and I’ll sign it from me, Ellie and our imaginary cat, Pattabby Jois.
Aint love grand?