Date: Wed, 21 Apr 1999 03:00:26 +0000
Subject: ROBERTS' RULES:Single

__________________ 

ROBERTS' RULES 

by 

Shelly Roberts


ONE FOR THE ROAD


Now that I don't have to, I'd like to log a lament with the Lesbian
Board of Standards about the Sorry State of Lesbian Singles. Or, as
I've come to think of it, being a "Me-sbian."

I spent a year and a half, recently, as a "theoretical" lesbian.
Monosexual. Solo. Me, myself, and a few friendly plug-in appliances. 

It was by choice, and except for the days when I was tearing telephone
books in half for increased upper body strength and outlet, it wasn't
half bad. I learned to be self-reliant again. I made great friends I
felt no inclination to sleep with. I ate whatever was in the
refrigerator for dinner, which was sometimes a plate of cookies, and
sometimes a box of broccoli, without once hearing the words, "Is THAT
what you're eating?" as though self-evidence wasn't. All the bathroom
mess was mine. And I cleaned it up regularly whenever I felt
compulsive, or got tired of guessing about the color of the floor
tiles. Nobody in my life took THAT tone about what time I quit working
and went to bed. I paid for one ticket to the fundraiser, one meal,
one guilt-free Godiva chocolate bar.

Oh, sure, Valentine's Day was lonely. But then again, I always knew
who's fault it was if there wasn't any gas in the car. Ok, mine, but I
almost never nagged me about it.

But single, well, it's a trip that is, as far as being lesbian is
concerned, more of a stumble. It's the Rodney Dangerfield of
Lesbianness. I would have registered my complaint sooner, but it
seemed to me that if you do it while you're still a resident of that
state, it sounds like whining. 

Take lesbian dances. Please. Lesbian dances are a terrible place to
meet single lesbians. They're a couplesfest. Duos come dressed to the
nines to see if either can remember which one is supposed to lead.
Whole gangs of women stand around trying to figure who in the rival
gangs they can ask to dance, if they could ask in the first place,
which they apparently can't. Single lesbians clump closely with best
friends, making it impossible to tell them from the real couples.  

Sometimes organizations try to help. They pass out Poor-Thing
stickers. Oh, they don't call them that, but you can practically hear
the twosomed tongues clucking. Ostensibly, these flypaper tags are
designed to save some terrified soul from inadvertently asking the
dojo owner's girlfriend to have coffee. In lesbian reality, they're
all too often like sticking a loser label to your forehead, for all
the sighing coming from the partnered parishioners.

Last year I was preparing a presentation to potential sponsors for
this little world-wide millennium celebration party I'm planning for a
few hundred thousand of my closest friends. I found great images of
respectable lesbians, and wholesome gay men to show funders what a
desirable target market we are. Before I committed the program to the
permanence of  a CD, I requested feedback. The only surprise I got was
from a single lesbian who pointed out, accurately, that all the
pictures were Noah's animals, two-by-two. I realized then, of course,
that if we're identified by who we partner with, then, obviously, when
you aren't partnered, it must follow as the night the day, that we
just have to turn in our membership cards. Can we say the word "Aha!"
Boys and Girls?

D'ja ever notice when anyone announces her domestic partnership has
logged double digits how loudly we all applaud? When's the last time
you applauded for someone revealing that she has been waltzing
foot-loose since before the Ford Administration? Me either.

And well-meaning couples friends aren't much help either. How do they
always find the singularly most inappropriate match possible? They
also stop inviting you to intimate dinner parties for matched sets, or
to white water rafting soirees, in fear your condition could be
contagious.

I know wonderful single women who delight in their optional solitary.
Many who've said, "Princess Charming or no one." Where is their honor?
Where is our respect for their rugged individualism? 

Now I don't want to tell you that I'm not thoroughly enjoying my
return to full lesbian status. Or that I'm not thrilled pairing with
someone who remembers where I left my car keys. Don't think it isn't
fabulous sharing space with someone willing to venture into the night
with me, armed only with a loaded broom handle, to discover the cat at
the window sill, and not a contingent of Klan paying a welcome call.
This time I fully expect Willard Scott to congratulate us for
accomplishing our hundredth anniversary. So I'm not signing up for
singledom just yet. Especially given the reverence paid to our lesbian
ones.

Should, however, something disastrous befall, and I become a one
again, do me a favor, would you? Just shoot me. Maybe in heaven I'll
find that lesbian singles can get some respect.  

And, of course, if it truly is a heaven, I know they won't make me
wear one of those silly stickers.

 ___________________________ 

(C)1999. Shelly Roberts. All rights reserved. A one-time simultaneous
print right is hereby granted to subscribing newspapers; all other
rights, including electronic or digital reproduction are reserved.
Must be reprinted only in its entirety with permission.

Shelly Roberts is an internationally syndicated columnist, journalist
and author of the 1999 Roberts' Rules of Lesbian Living Daily
Calendar. (Spinsters Ink.)