At my dentist today, where I am well-known (thanks to the short end of the genetic stick), one of the assistants saw me walking in to the office and came out to greet me. She really is the world’s sweetest woman: very religious, HUGE smile, never forgets a face. S had gone to this particular dentist for the first time today and everyone was eager to let me know they had met her.
“I met someone you know!” she said with a huge smile while three other victims, I mean patients, waited within ear shot.
A man from across the room, “Who did you meet , Donna?”
“Oh…just someone…uh…we both know,” she managed to sputter out. I know she probably thought she was protecting me so the good man didn’t find out my terrible secret (I am queer, in case you didn’t know). But it felt like a dig. I almost checked myself to make sure I hadn’t missed the memo about self-shame.
“She met my other half,” I told the man.
Donna proceeded to tell me how sweet she was and how it was fun to finally meet her after all that time. I guess I gave her permission to disclose my (not so) dirty laundry. On the one hand, I appreciate her discretion about my life in general, regardless of the topic. On the other hand, I feel a little sad that it is even an issue. One day, people. One day…