Happy National Coming Out Day. Remember in college when we all gathered on the library steps and made out with each other to celebrate?  Remember the tours of prospective students who walked passed the kiss-in (not to be confused with the die-in that we staged at the local shopping mall during the Gulf War Part I)?

Today, I'm thinking that "coming out" should be called something more plural--because lately, I came out to real estate agents, doctors, coworkers, students, the lab technician, my physical therapist and even the mason who came to look at our chimney last week. It never ends. Sometimes I forget that I am coming out--that something is happening for the mason when two women answer the door and ask him to look at our chimney. Sometimes I don't forget that I'm coming out and I feel annoyed and vulnerable. Often, it's not because I consciously need these people to know anything about my love life, but it's because I'm talking about my family and want to use pronouns and not erase myself and my partner.

Happy Coming Out Day.