Sun, surf, and segregation

I’m back from a week of pure escapist lounging in Key West. I managed to get plenty of sun without collecting a sunburn, plenty of water while only getting slightly queasy once or twice, several slices of excellent Key Lime pie, the opportunity to commune with both stray cats and chickens and captive butterflies, and my recommended weekly allowance of drag shows. The week’s soundtrack was overall excellent, though lediva did lament the lack of Beach Boys. Most importantly, I got a well-needed big ol’ chunk of high-quality time with lediva, who is just an amazingly wonderful person to be around.

We stayed at Pearl’s Rainbow, a women-only resort in the old part of Key West, and a perfect home base for wandering around. It was quirky and comfortable and populated by older-than-Spring-Breakers lesbian couples, who lounged around a pool surrounded by tropical plants, sunning themselves. It was cozy and safe feeling and just right. I’m not sure why part of me feels, on a gut level, that these people are more like me than the perfect-in-a-bikini 22 year-old Spring Breakers on the boats, without talking to either of them. It’s all physical stereotyping, and it makes me feel vaguely ashamed when I catch myself at it. Sometimes I feel like a real fake in lesbian spaces, me with the wedding ring and the phallic talisman tucked into my clothing and the sort of straightish look and the determinedly ambisexual spirit.

In general, I’m kind of conflicted about the fact that I really enjoy women’s spaces, gay or straight. I know so many gender-variant people who’d love to be welcomed into that kind of community, and just can’t for physical reasons manage it. I know people in male bodies who are much more safe/caring/loving/add-your-own-stereotype-here than some women that I know. I’ve been in women’s groups where people are gossipy, catty, and just not very nice, and ones where the main topic of conversation is male-bashing. And I can’t really put my finger firmly on what the difference in womanspace is, something that feels energetically different, something about the gender sameness that matters, even though by all reasonable rights it shouldn’t. Nevertheless I really crave it, especially in a spiritual/religious context.

Now I’m back in the office, with a lab bay filled with about seventeen quadrillion boxes that got sent to me during the week, a dusting of snow on the grass outside, and no increase in desire to hang out with my coworkers, whom I’m not sure noticed that I was gone. Life goes on.