Checking the "single" box on my medical records is fucking ridiculous. When offered, checking "other" and writing "domestic partnership" on the line provided sounds like my wife and I made an agreement to grow tails, stay off the couch, and pee outside. But my integrity won't let me check the "married" box because, well, it's not true.
I recently conducted a medical review over the phone. Perfectly Pleasant Pam asked me my name. Date of birth. Single or married.
Oh, boy. Here we go. I sighed. "I guess I have to say single, unfortunately."
"Well that's all right," Pam said. I imagined her shifting uncomfortably in her seat.
"It's not legal for me to get married," I said. I wanted Pam to know that being denied the right to marry was not "all right" with me.
"Well I've been with my guy for nine, ten years," Pam said. She briefly elaborated, suggesting it was hilarious that being with her guy for so long provided her no pleasure in checking the married box.
Congratulations, Pam. Your relationship is a riot. You and your guy are a couple regular Everybody Loves Raymond types that American's adore. Aren't you fucking special.
Pam seemed relieved to move on to questions concerning my medical history.
I thought Pam and I were done; we'd had our moment and it had passed. We were compadres, working on the same team. Then she asked me for my emergency contact, which I provided with no hesitation. Her name is...Her phone number is...
"Is this your friend?" Pam said.
The phone's for you, Pam. It's 1995 and it wants its "roommate" back.
"She's my WIFE," I responded.
Pam didn't know what to do. Stuck between wanting to seem cool and having a hard time hiding her true self, she stammered and may have accidently shot a staple into her leg.
Fail, Pam. Epic fail.
I'm begging, imploring that people like Pam are soon put out of their misery. She can call me carpet licker, diesel dyke, homo, fag, or anything else her and her guy can come up with behind my back, just as long as there's a word for what I am on my medical records: Married.
I recently conducted a medical review over the phone. Perfectly Pleasant Pam asked me my name. Date of birth. Single or married.
Oh, boy. Here we go. I sighed. "I guess I have to say single, unfortunately."
"Well that's all right," Pam said. I imagined her shifting uncomfortably in her seat.
"It's not legal for me to get married," I said. I wanted Pam to know that being denied the right to marry was not "all right" with me.
"Well I've been with my guy for nine, ten years," Pam said. She briefly elaborated, suggesting it was hilarious that being with her guy for so long provided her no pleasure in checking the married box.
Congratulations, Pam. Your relationship is a riot. You and your guy are a couple regular Everybody Loves Raymond types that American's adore. Aren't you fucking special.
Pam seemed relieved to move on to questions concerning my medical history.
I thought Pam and I were done; we'd had our moment and it had passed. We were compadres, working on the same team. Then she asked me for my emergency contact, which I provided with no hesitation. Her name is...Her phone number is...
"Is this your friend?" Pam said.
The phone's for you, Pam. It's 1995 and it wants its "roommate" back.
"She's my WIFE," I responded.
Pam didn't know what to do. Stuck between wanting to seem cool and having a hard time hiding her true self, she stammered and may have accidently shot a staple into her leg.
Fail, Pam. Epic fail.
I'm begging, imploring that people like Pam are soon put out of their misery. She can call me carpet licker, diesel dyke, homo, fag, or anything else her and her guy can come up with behind my back, just as long as there's a word for what I am on my medical records: Married.
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