IT'S OKAY IF YOUR SOFA ISN'T GAY

I’m not rushing to IKEA. I have a generalized liking of the company because it’s Swedish and all things Swedish make me smile. As well, one of their commercials always amuses me and I regularly use its catchphrase, much to the puzzlement of my friends. Still, my days of shopping for some-assembly-required furniture are in the past for several reasons. I once put together an IKEA armoire that did a spot-on Leaning Tower of Pisa impression. I don’t wish to park my car in the far reaches of the parking lot which may technically have me across the U.S. border, if not Mexico. And I don’t want to carry around one of those ridiculously large yellow or blue shopping bags that whisper nonstop, “Fill me.”

Not even a gay sofa will lure me. 

 

If that’s your thing and it goes with your décor or serves as the inspiration for a redecorating project, go for it. I don’t have any objection to an LGBTQ sofa in any of its news-making incarnations. I just don’t have the need for one. My charcoal-colored sofa is comfy enough, even if the accessorizing pillows are looking a little dated.

 

When I consider building up The Pride Inside, I’m thinking about within my mind and soul, not my living room. I’m not sure that any item in my entire apartment screams gay, but I’m okay with that. Trying to make a statement with a gay shower curtain or nightstand or spatula would be much ado about nothing. I already know I’m gay. My gay spatula isn’t going to out me or showcase how important queerness is as part of my identity. I don’t cook that often and, if someone came over, we’d definitely be ordering takeout. Call it a hunch, but my not-so-famous soggy nachos and overcooked fettuccini with vodka-infused Prego sauce are for my taste buds only. 

 

I don't know...If this sofa were really 

gay, I think it would be tastefully edited.

Too garish.

Truthfully, no one would even chance upon my gay spatula while rummaging through my kitchen drawers as I head down to the lobby to pick up the aloo gobi and channa masala from the DoorDash guy. (This is my made-up scenario. I’ll order what I want and the fictional guest will happily go along with it. Mmm, aloo gobi! Whatever that is.) I’ve had no one over in the past year. I could say that it’s on account of COVID so it doesn’t sound so sad but, truthfully, I’ve never been keen on hosting. In my five years in my prior home, I didn’t have a single party…not a dinner for four and most certainly not some raver celebration that gets shut down by the police. I don’t even have a dining room or a table. If IKEA comes out with gay dining room tables…Nah. Still not a statement. I’m not going to suddenly say to the barista who only knows me as 20-ounce Oat Milk Latte, “Hey, want to come over and watch Netflix when your shift’s over? I have a brand-new dining table. It’s gay, by the way.” 

 

I confess, I was just looking

for a strictly professional

reason to do a Google Image

search of Nate. 

Can you blame me?  

Sure, some boyfriends saw my last place, but I didn’t feel any sense of regret that, in giving them a tour of my teensy space, I couldn’t say, “And here’s my gay lamp. Don’t you think Nate Berkus would love it?” The light even had an environmentally responsible LED bulb. Not that I had a yearning to highlight that either. Sometimes a lamp is just a lamp. Let it help me read at night, let it soften the bags under my eyes if I should decide to take a selfie. Perfectly functional, perfectly fine.

 

There was an episode of “Queer Eye” when they focused on Skyler Jay, a young trans man. I recall him having a big rainbow flag hanging in his living room and the QE team taking it down during the makeover. I don’t recall their reasoning, but it was probably something like too college dorm-ish or Your living room has a big window with southern exposure. You know flags fade, right? 

 

Even if I were in the market for a new couch, I wouldn’t head to IKEA to purchase one that’s just celebrated its coming out in a big way. If sofas could talk, this one would say, “Yep. I’m gay.” (If your sofa actually does talk, you might want to see someone about that.) I’m pretty sure that, even after the deepest night’s sleep, I’m not going to crawl out of bed at ten in the morning, step into the living room, glance at my sofa and think, Oh, yeah. I’m gay. Thanks for the reminder. Now…must have coffee.

 

If I were still passionate about letting the world know I’m queer, there’s not a thing I could do in my condo that would convey the message. Not even if I bought three gay spatulas. It’s no bolder than all those overwrought journal entries from my adolescence that always ended with the same sentence in all-caps: I THINK I’M A HOMOSEXUAL. No one ever read my diary. Not even my mother was that curious.

 

So magnet-worthy, don't you think?

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to buy a gay fridge magnet, one with the AIDS ribbon or a highbrow literary nod to James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room which I haven’t read but is always near the top of my reading list. (The magnet might work better than a Post-it to nag me into finally checking it out. When you commemorate something on a magnet, it’s serious.) Maybe I can just get someone on Etsy to make me a shirtless Matt Bomer magnet. I’m not really all that highbrow.

 

If I want to show my Pride in any meaningful way, someone else has to see it. I can walk into the grocery store with my rainbow face mask. (Yep, I’ve got one. The only person who’s ever commented on it is a young, overly caffeinated female barista at another café who knows me as Large Nitro Cold Brew.) I can also put on my rainbow Converse shoes which still haven’t been broken in. Another option is to carry around a softball and say to random strangers, “Hey, you wanna play catch?” If they shrug and say okay, I could then miss every ball. Oh! they’d say. He’s gay. (I’m the reason the stereotype still exists.)

 

As far as my living space, I could buy some art by a local gay artist (because I’m pretty sure I can’t buy a Mapplethorpe or a Hockney). A painting by Joe Average or John Ferrie perhaps. I’d rather my money go to someone who’s gay than to a large corporation that makes clearly faulty armoires. 

 

For now, I’m going to spend the rest of the day shopping online for new pillows.