Metamorphosis and the butch butterfly

Sometimes I think W deserves someone better than me.

Sometimes means during the past few weeks.

I have been moody.

Imagine this storm cloud in flannel

Imagine this storm cloud in flannel.

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.

Imagine this dude in flannel.

Imagine this dude in flannel.

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.

She’s right.

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.

Maybe I'm a butch butterfly after all.

Maybe I’m a butch butterfly after all.

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.

* * *

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?

12 responses to “Metamorphosis and the butch butterfly

  1. A butterfly in combat boots! *chortles* I can just see all the butterfly eating critters in the animal queendom wandering around with a dazed expression on their faces and splints on their beaks. “But, she kicked me! For realz!”

    I’m actually a rather cheery butch more often than not. Perhaps I’m an anomaly.

    I think there’s a significant difference between figuring out who we are and what we are. (and what we want to be when we grow up!) Be a butterfly with combat boots. That’s what fits today. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

  2. I get hung up on “wife” too (Donna and I are not married because she considers it bourgeois decadence – never take up with someone who was once in a Marxist study group).
    I like partner, spouse, and lover, but I always hated significant other and companion doesn’t work because of our age difference. Husband is out of the question. Sometimes I get introduced as “my Jamie” which is about as accurate as it gets.
    I’m much less moody since I entered menopause.

  3. urbanmythcafe

    The great thing about being a work in progress, is that you get to be more than one thing, in this life.
    I know that Danville MacDonalds. I drive across the coal country, and get on 80 there.

  4. I just discovered the term soft butch. I had previously thought of my self as sort of androgynous (assuming it meant both/and when apparently people take it as meaning neither/nor). Huh.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s