Sometimes I think W deserves someone better than me.
Sometimes means during the past few weeks.
I have been moody.
Not 24/7 moody. That would be full-blown depression. Instead, I have been like a black storm cloud in the summer heat, unpredictable and quick to rain on everyone’s parade.
“You are a lucky woman,” I tell W sometimes.
I call her by her full name when I say this. She thinks it’s cute.
I know this because she crinkles her nose.
I haven’t called her a lucky woman for awhile.
I wonder if I am moody because I’m a butch. A brooding butch chiseled out of stone and always over thinking things until smoke comes out my ears and my flannel is at risk of catching on fire.
As a general rule, butches are not perky or bubbly or given nicknames like Sunshine or Daisy.
Maybe it’s because I’m a writer prone to endless inner reflection. Sylvia Plath in a pair of Dr. Marten’s boots.
It could be a combination of the two. A butch writer. W never had a chance.
We had a spirited discussion last weekend about the word “wife.” About how W has a desire to use the word to describe me while I would cringe inside about such a female-identified word being used in reference to me.
Later, I told W she should refer to me as her “female lover” just for the shock factor.
“I can’t win,” she says.
I think it’s because I still haven’t figured out who I am. It sounds silly because I am in my 40s. But I still feel like I am in a state of flux, a work in progress.
I wonder if butch is just a transition. Just another phase in my metamorphosis from tomboy to lesbian to soft butch to butch to something else.
When I used to travel to my alma mater to meet up with my college pals, I would drive for as long as I could before stopping for something to drink or to use a restroom. I usually stopped about two-and-a-half hours into the trip at a McDonalds in Danville, a small town near the center of Pennsylvania. I would grab two cheeseburgers and a vanilla shake and continue on, excited to see my friends and pop open a cold beer. I wonder if butch is Danville. A pit stop and not a destination.
Or is my metamorphosis complete? Maybe I’m already a butterfly (a butterfly in a flannel shirt and combat boots) and just haven’t realized it yet.
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What about you? Are you a moody butch or in a relationship with one? Are you still a work in progress or is your transformation complete?