Three years in, or almost, and still I am amused/baffled whenever the question of "roles" comes up in casual conversation with friends old and new -- so, who's the "girl", who's the "guy"? Most times I only laugh; yes, I find it funny, but only because it confuses us, more than anything.
The most interesting assessment came a few days ago while I was out with a few older friends, one of whom expressed her confusion. Speaking to me, she said she thought I was "the femme one" because I had been the "quiet one" and Andrea was the more outgoing one that time we met at a Christmas party a few years back.
I laughed – me, femme? Seriously? We were sitting around a table, drinking beer under a clear, smoke-less night sky, and everybody toasted to the absurd thought that was me being femme – me in my sneakers and jeans and a shirt that Andrea grabbed from a department store's boys' section.
I said, "Maybe one of these days Andrea and I would go out with you guys dressed in matching skirts." At least one of them turned pale at the threat.
It's not that I don't like the setup – I respect it and the people who subscribe to it. It's just not for us. Falling into quiet domesticity soon after getting together, sure we've already divided a few roles between us – she cooks, I wash dishes; she sweeps, I clean the bathroom; I send the laundry out, she sorts them when they get back – but the delineation is more because of talent and inclination rather than a conscious attempt to conform to "roles".
So I am handy around the house while she's artsy; so I wear jeans to work while she wears tights and skirts. I have seven pairs of footwear, three of which are sneakers and two of which are actually flipflops; she has a bajillion of various sorts. I have a swagger, whereas she glides. Sometimes I wonder, should I stop resisting being called "butch" and just say "okay, butch it is, BRB getting a tattoo."
But then.
But then I also get weepy over NYT articles about Modern Love. And on certain occasions (albeit very rare), some boys are attractive, too.
Not to mention her hair totally out-butches mine. And I mean to say it does so ALWAYS. Not that I mind dating someone with perfect shorthair always, but still.
"But then looking at you guys – together – man, you're confusing," friend continues. We toast the thought one more time, downing the rest of our respective drinks. Changing the topic, I tell our other single friend about the potential of the dentist across the road.
It's a consensus between Andrea and I – the dentist across the road is HOT. "But then, you know our type, don't you?" I say, slinging a hand around her shoulder.
"Yeah. Each other."
So maybe, just that. Not femme, not butch – just two girls who like each other. Safe enough, isn't that.
