When I walked into my childhood home with my new Taylor Swift tattoo, platform Doc Martens, and the clanging of an absurd amount of rings on my hands, I was shocked to see my entire extended family passive-aggresively waving tiny bisexual pride flags in my face.

How could they possibly have known?!

For all these years, I told myself I cuffed my jeans because I was a painfully average 5’4”. I only thought that I was attracted to everyone because I was bored and watched too many rom-coms and reality dating shows as a child. But after overcoming all that internalized homophobia (mostly my debilitating fear of Frankie Grande), I slowly started referring to myself as a bisexual in college. However, right when I was getting good at being the first one to message girls on Bumble, Thanksgiving break had to go and ruin all of my hard work. Of course none of my family knew I was Bi, I pushed that shit down along with all that normal family trauma everyone ignores from November until January. 

My uncle Dick must have had some theories after I aggressively used the term ‘partner’ when he kept asking if I planned on marrying a rich man because “with a career in journalism, you should think about it.”

I might not have helped myself when I would not shut up about how “Ocean’s 8” was my favorite movie because I could not get over how hot the entire cast was. Openly discussing how much I re-watched “Glee” in college was not making anything better either. 

I thought I had done such a good job hiding it from my family. I stopped myself from getting a nose ring, my hair was still a fairly natural color, and I avoided excessively layering clothes and jewelry. 

My great-grammie Myrtle even got in on the speculating, but she was slightly confused on what was going on. (Ha, like the crisis of my sexuality!) She kept saying, “She’s a bicycle? A bicentennial? The girl is a 20-year-old human, what are you talking about Dick?” and when my mom was finally able to ‘explain’ what everyone else clearly already knew, she mentioned that she too “had a love of riding bicycles” in her youth.

Thankfully (please laugh, it’s the only Thanksgiving pun you’ll get), no one was a complete homophobe, and if anything they all just got even more annoying and invasive with their questions. 

No, I will not consider hooking up with that couple that my cousin knows is having marital problems. Yes, I will binge all of “Rupaul’s Drag Race: UK” with my mom again now that she knows she lives with a member of the LGBTQ+ community (she’s so progressive!). No, I will not be telling my father (he doesn’t know about the Taylor Swift tattoo either).

Well, let me get started on my Christmas decorating: donning my gay apparel (probably some quirky and niche ugly sweater tucked into mom jeans) and making the yuletide even gayer when I adorn my mini christmas tree with that cursed RuPaul ornament. 

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