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My extended family totally thinks I'm a homo.



They've thought this for some time, because I'm (gasp) nearly 28 and unmarried, a set of circumstances that has never before occurred in the Hubley family. Also, I never have a boyfriend. Plus, there was that whole Ani DiFranco-shaved head-nosering phase in college, which probably didn't help matters much. I mean, really, what are they supposed to think?



They don't come right out and ask me if I'm gay, though. Maybe your family does this, but Hubleys are masters of indirection and innuendo. I receive invitations to weddings and such with the gender neutral verbal assurance that I can bring, you know, any special someone. When my aunts ask me what's new with my love-life, they never use the male pronoun.



This shouldn't bother me, of course. It probably means I'm homophobic on some deep, dark level. (And when I find that deep, dark level, rest assured I'm having electricity put in.) But it's kind of annoying to be taken for something you're not, especially when it's put in such a way that you can't really explain yourself without looking defensive.



The final straw was when my cousin Rolfe, who is actually gay, asked me how I liked living in Roslindale. This was two Christmases ago, shortly after I'd moved into my place. "Lotta lesbians in Roslindale," he observed.



"Yes, there are. But I'm not a lesbian, Rolfe."



He made the hereditary Hubley eyebrow wrinkle of embarrassment. His father does it. I do it, too.



"Oh. Okay. I mean, of course you're not."



I paused. "Although, to be fair, it is nice to be able to go into a bar and have a whole bunch of people think you're cute, and not worry that they'll try to assault you in the parking lot."