When Biology Doesn't Explain Gay: One Woman's Perspective

The rarely emotive Margie stood in front of the ski-lodge style fireplace and made an announcement. "I love it! We'll take it! I don't need to see upstairs!"

We did take it, but I still had my job in the city. It became our weekend DIY project. And my weekend escape from the chaos of a difficult work situation. And also escape from a level of commitment ambivalence that made my pulse race, feeding my impulsivity. In the country with Margie, there was no temptation.

I had affairs, though, with men. Eventually, I fled our home and, ironically, through an intense but short-lived relationship with a near-perfect guy, I realized the depth of my love for Margie.

He was attentive, adventurous, smart. I really liked him, but I couldn't love him, because I was already in love.

I'm so glad she wanted me back.

These days my mother and I are creating and revising the wedding menu by phone (she lives in South Carolina), and my dad (who lives in Cleveland) has come through with the cash for my favorite champagne and an extraordinarily difficult-to-book DJ.

Margie's 80-year-old mother, Juanita, is making the trip from the suburb of Shaker Heights, Ohio, to sew chair cushions and curtains in preparation for our overnight guests. Margie is her youngest child — her tomboyish baby. Juanita and Margie's older sister knew she was gay before Margie did.

An only child, I gave new meaning to the words eccentric and prissy. I hated wearing pants and didn't get my first pair of jeans until age 12. I cried until my mother sewed lace around the trim of my little white socks. Of all the things she worried about when it came to my future, gayness didn't make the list.