Vestigial Closetitis

I’m out and proud and all that. And I’ve been myself in some situations that would make the queerist of the queer think carefully about their self-portrayal. Like at my mother’s funeral.

Mom was the pastor of a small Methodist church in a rural community. My partner and I attended services whenever we visited and were welcomed like family by her congregation. But it was still difficult for me to take my partner’s hand as we walked to the front of the sanctuary to take our seats with the rest of my family for her funeral service. But the point is, we did it. Our support for each other in our grief was more important than anything else and we maintained this kind of physical contact virtually throughout the entire duration of the experience.

But the last few days I’ve used the term “roommate” instead of “partner” twice and for the life of me I don’t know why. Granted, both times I was on tech support calls. But what the hell does that matter? If I can publicly show my affection for him in front of my mother’s grieving congregation why doesn’t the word “partner” come out of my mouth every last time I quantify our relationship to a stranger on the effing phone?

Obviously I have a relapse of the dreaded disease Vestigial Closetitis. I called my (gay) doctor and he suggested I take two bears and call him in the morning. Sounds like a prescription for success to me.