We’ve all heard that being “gay” doesn’t change who a person is. Yes, in one sense this is true. But in actuality, the inverse is happening. Being closeted changes people. They’re hiding from their true selves, and once they come out they can blossom into the fabulous gay flower they were always meant to be. Here are some differences I’ve notice since I came out.
- If I’m having a really good hair day, I’ll actually make plans with people (sometimes people I would never normally willingly hang out with), simply to get out of the house so everyone can witness my gloriously sculpted locks. While in the closet I didn’t even own a brush, and my scrappy, disheveled ‘do looked like something a cat would have hacked up after going to town a little too furiously in its nether regions. And let me tell you, the cat-pube hairball look doesn’t flatter anyone. So now, when my hair does look good, I make it a point to go out and fish for compliments. So if you start to notice that I only call you at random times and every time we hang out my hair seems to look amazing, don’t think anything of it. Just compliment me, god dammit. Or I’ll call somebody else.
- I sweat more than the average male. I noticed this while I was in the closet as well, but for some reason thought that coming out would help solve the problem. Unfortunately it may have only agitated it and made it worse. Because now I actually have to go on nervous, awkward, super-sweaty first dates. Before such occasions I will actually rub antiperspirant all over my body as if it were a bar of soap. However, this process is surprisingly labor-intensive and in the end just makes me sweat even more. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t wear white T-shirts more than once.
- I listen to Lady Gaga now, and liken her to a gay rite of passage, much like a Jewish boy’s bar mitzvah or the moment when a blind person finally realizes that those mysterious messages from God that he gets when he’s cold are actually just goose bumps.
- I fold my clothes. And I wash ‘em, too. (Not in that order.) As much as I hate cleaning and folding laundry, it must be done rather frequently because of my aforementioned over-productive sweat glands and because a wrinkly garment can completely ruin what is otherwise a fucking knockout outfit.