Well, let me tell you why that is wrong.
As Reno goes from winter to summer, I’m anxious to start our almost fanatical four months of non-stop weekend trips: either camping out at Pyramid Lake in the Nevada desert or boating at Lake Tahoe. Jim usually begs for a weekend at home come mid-October.
I’ll drive our old rig out Friday; I look like the little old lady peering over the steering wheel. Normally meeting up with at least one other early arrival, part of group of women we met a few years ago that have all the toys and gear.
And it never fails, the flattest water always happens when us skiers are sitting in our beach
chairs, cursing that Jim won’t arrive until dark with the boat.
We take up a bit of shoreline with our rigs, boat and jet ski trailers, leaving room for competitive horseshoes and a bonfire pit.
These gals are funny, independent, athletic and educated. Most of this group has been friends for years, some are couples.
We were adopted after we offered a “pull” from our boat to a gal that was trying to slalom unsuccessfully behind a jet ski. One gal has a teenage daughter who comes out sporadically; most of the time it is just us adults and our herd of mutts.
There’s no drugs or drama and our entire crew has the respect for the Tribal lake. Meaning we leave it cleaner than we found it – taking garbage bags home of broken glass and nails from prohibited pallets, sometimes clothing (weird). It pisses me off, the amount of dumb-asses that leave their shit. I blame it on their parents, that they didn’t teach their kids this global courtesy, this tenet.
I’m probably the wild card in the bunch – midnight skinny dipping, entertaining with poi
balls and lighted gloves, and always wanting to turn up the stereo too loud. Jim, who is always liked better than me, is teased like a brother and he’s among more women that have mechanical skills and knowledge, unlike myself.
Once we all say goodnight for the evening, there is silence from our cabal of sun worshipers. Depending on which beach we choose, we may be kept awake by the “boom boom” vibration of party people, echoing off the small bay.
In the height of the summer, it is so damn hot, we lay there in our metal soup can with a wash cloth on our naked bodies. “Don’t touch me! Your leg is sweaty!” is normally the extent of our pillow talk. We hear nothing from our neighbors. No one is getting any action.
What I can’t understand is why it is illegal for any of these couples to get married.
What makes Jim and I better candidates for that legal document? Do we love each other more? Do we have a stronger or better relationship? Why would god or the power of the universe say that we deserve official recognition for our infertile union compared to another loving couple?
I think we understand that higher beings don’t get involved with paperwork, right?
Oh yeah, people against gay marriage don’t care about the quality of the relationship, they care about sex-chromosomes. And straight folks can have shitty, short-term marriages, commit adultery and get divorces, but that’s okay, they have the CORRECT chromosomes. It’s written in all these old “good” books, right?
What I do care about is integrity and about being with people who respect themselves and show compassion for others.
How these successful women make love or get off, doesn’t affect me.
Single or married, young or old, gay or straight, I just want to surround myself with people who challenge me, who are genuine, who bring out my very best. Oh, and no whiners.
So, how very stupid am I?
It’s not about the sex-chromosomes stupid. It’s not about male or female. It’s not about hanging out with people of any sexual orientation or color or anything else you can check- off on a survey.
I need to rename the title of this post.