The Rubbish Lesbian: Selected Columns by Sarah Westwood

Author:Sarah Westwood
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2013-12-09T05:00:00+00:00

I used to dread having to come out anew to every person who joined the firm. I think there’s a lesson in this one about over-thinking things.

Everybody Out: Accidently Coming Out to the New Girl During a Fire Alarm.

I accidentally came out to the new girl at work this week during a routine fire alarm. Someone shouted, “Everybody out”, and I took it literally.

I’m not fond of telling new members of the team that I’m gay. It has nothing to do with how I feel about it, but I feel responsible for managing their feelings. Coming out to new people at work creates a moment of premature intimacy. It sounds like I’ve made a personal revelation akin to, “My husband doesn’t understand me”, when we’re still at the level of “are you a tea or coffee person?”. But if I don’t tell them, I run the risk of them making assumptions and then feeling foolish – it’s a social minefield.

I’ve learned to delegate the task of telling new people to my friend. Her technique is quick and painless – like ripping off a plaster. One lunch hour during their first week she’ll sidle up to the new person and say, “Sarah’s a lesbian”. She’s in and outed me before the ping of the microwave signals their jacket potato’s ready.

The fire alarm is sounding, and I’m standing on the pavement talking to our new girl. My own alarm bells are ringing. I must not out myself in this chat. I must stick to small talk about the weather, the Olympics, or the Olympic weather.

“I saw women’s beach volleyball last night.” What am I saying? Women’s beach volleyball?

“I hope you got to see the men’s match too?”

Men play beach volleyball? That’s news to me. But then I do vaguely recall someone telling me that I was missing a men’s match as I stood in line for more rosé. “No, we didn’t see any men play.”

“Oh well at least your boyfriend enjoyed it.” There’s a sudden pause and she says, “Oh sorry. Do you have a boyfriend?”.

I could say, “no” and leave it at that. It wouldn’t be lying. It’s a partial truth. I’m hurtling towards a conversational crossroads and I can’t decide which way to turn.

“Actually I have a girlfriend.” I’m now rowing backwards faster than Sir Steve Redgrave in an attempt to own the moment, and be cool and confident.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

Is she sorry that I’m gay, or sorry that she’d made the assumption that I was straight? The question mark is still hanging in the air when the alarm stops. We’re saved by the bell, and as quickly as I had come out I head back in.

• • •

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