Day Sixty five
So, there I was at the drag show.
Wait. I’ll back up. The evening didn’t start with a drag show. Of course not. The evening began with an all-lesbian appetizer party. (So many stories start this way, right?) We travelled to our friends’ house to attend their party, get dragged out to the show, and then to spend the rest of the weekend lounging, shopping, and eating. These are our lesbian friends. And their lesbian friends. An all-lesbian-all-the-time weekend. Just our thing.
Now I like appetizers a lot. And, like most adults I know, I like my appetizers to be accompanied by some sort of beverage. Preferably something in stemware. And so, I had come prepared. I brought my usual array of non-alcoholic beers, seltzers, and over-priced bottles of over-packaged spring water. I was ready. Bring it on.
Ok, that’s a lie. I wasn’t ready, and I knew it. I approached this event pretty much prepared to hunker down and slog through it. I had inquired ahead of time, and yes, the drag show venue did include a bar. I imagined that the trouble would begin for me once we got there, and that my strategy would include hiding in a corner and waiting desperately for it to be over. I saw much of it coming: the hiding, the yearning, the wishing away of the entire evening. I did try to prepare.
But I didn’t anticipate the appearance of the first queen of the evening, and she was at the appetizer party. White wine. The friend that I used to purposely seek out when it was clearly time to get drunk. The bottle I would bring home from the store on those evenings when I didn’t even want to pretend that I could keep it under control. Me, one bottle of pinot grigio, one piece of stemware – an entire blissful evening could slide by. And there it was. At the party. I hadn’t yet stopped to realize how lucky I am that most of my friends are red wine or beer drinkers. I hadn’t yet had to face this beauty. It was like bumping into an ex-lover (the one that I never got over) at a party, and seeing that she had somehow become even more beautiful since she left me. There, amidst the spanokopitas and the brie puffs, were bottles of white wine. I froze. I stared. I longed and pined. I somehow abstained.
Mercifully, that part of the evening ended, and the entire group moved onto the drag show. (When I say “entire group,” I’m talking about approximately ten or so northern Maine lesbians. Who knew?) We arrived, we grabbed seats, and most members of the group immediately split to join the long line that had formed at the bar. I spent the next several hours staring at iced-down concoctions of I-don’t-know-what-but-it-was-very-pink and beer bottles. At one point, I got entirely lost for at least twenty minutes in Kara’s glass of shiraz. Conversations about being “wasted” at this or that event seemed to occupy all the air space in that room. It was an all-out assault. I hunkered down. I made a lot of trips to the bathroom.
Meanwhile, there were mediocre northern Maine drag queens doing their thing onstage and in the aisles of the event center. (When not being utilized for drag shows, I believe that perfectly respectable, hetero weddings were likely held in this place on a regular basis.) Feather boas, shiny stick-on body stars, lip synching, gyrating, hats, layer upon layer of makeup, wigs, sexy boots — the whole deal. This not-so-sophisticated, raunchy ballet was set against this entirely booze-filled atmosphere.
If I had driven myself there in my own car (instead of foolishly offering to be a designated driver for other people – the thought was not to “waste” all this sobriety), I wouldn’t have lasted more than ten minutes in this place. As it was, I had to stay. I had to stay and watch the party. Once again, I had that feeling of just being in the wrong place – on the wrong planet – belonging to the wrong species for all this. I spent some time entertaining myself by diagnosing every else in the room. “She just said that her doctor told her not to drink. Isn’t that like her fourth drink? Alkie.”
The bright spot in the evening came from being able to watch gay and lesbian couples act like couples. It was also renewing to be in one of those same couples and to hold my partner close right there in front of people. She did her level best to be supportive. And, being normal, she was able to have a couple of drinks. It’s certainly what I would have done in her shoes. It gets complicated to be in love with someone while simultaneously carrying so much envy.
As the evening started to wind down, I watched a couple of the drag queens carrying props out to their cars. Costumes gone, they were back in their boy clothes – jeans, sneakers, and t-shirts. But their makeup was still on, and their hair was still styled. The show was over, but it would take time for them to fully re-enter their other lives. By the end of the night, I had also accumulated some props– empty n.a. beer bottles and a fake smile. I was in drag too. A sober person dragging as someone who is normal. A former drunk dragging as someone who is just “volunteering” to drive that night. It takes less makeup. But it’s still a drag.
That was day sixty-five.
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