If you are reading this, it means I couldn’t do it.

by Shelly Leachman

It means, my dear friends, that despite my most intriguing invitation yet, based almost solely on who it came from (you know who you are, Ms. Super-hot Girl that I Adore), plus a latent curiosity on par with my low-grade and lazy urge to go to India (I want to see it without enduring the crowds, the alleged squalor and what I’m sure would be some serious gastrointestinal distress, food sissy that I am), I did not go to the Dinah this year.

An admission: I’ve actually never been.

That’s right, it’s true—here I am, 36 years young, out for ages, a lifelong Californian and not once have I made that ritual lesbian pilgrimage to good old boring-as-it-is-beautiful Palm Springs.

I’ve just never wanted to. Ever.

I know, I know, many of you out there are still nursing your Dinah-induced hangovers, having returned from the festivities barely one week ago—recovery takes time, after all, especially when tequila (really, is there any other choice?) and not a little topless lesbian debauchery are involved. And at this very moment, you’re reading this incredulously and thinking to yourselves, “What?! You’ve seriously never been? Why the hell not?”

To which I simply say, well, why should I?

From what I understand, this extravaganza, as it were, despite deriving its name from a once-celebrated, now-departed celebrity who wasn’t even gay, (she dated Burt Reynolds, for crap’s sake! What even borderline gay woman could go down Reynolds road?), is essentially Truck Stop on steroids. And why do I need to spend a handful of C-notes for two days of what I can get every Friday for one-tenth of the price?

You know what though? My hesitation isn’t really cost-related, as anyone who knows me even slightly well can tell you that I do not shy away from spending money and in fact possess in designer jeans and overpriced T-shirts the equivalent of what some of my peers have sitting in their 401(k)s.

My reluctance, nay, my refusal to journey to what may be the biggest annual all-girl party on the West Coast, comes from the same place as does my reason for mostly avoiding places like Truck Stop (just because I could go every Friday doesn’t mean I do) except in cases of birthdays, sheltered out-of-towners or being too intoxicated to put up a fight.

It’s why in seven years spent living in San Francisco I only attended the Pride Weekend Dyke March festivities at Dolores Park exactly once.

I don’t like being around all those lesbians.

Don’t get me wrong—I love lesbians. I actually had a blast on that singular Dyke March experience and have had great nights at nearly every girl club here (except for that unfortunate incident at Girl Bar a few years back, but who hasn’t had one of those?)

So you see, it’s not that I don’t worship women—because trust me, I do—or that I’m harboring some internalized homophobia, because believe me, I’m pretty sure I’m not (I’ll ask my therapist and get back to you).

It’s just that I prize diversity. I revel in the vast varieties of people that in a place like Los Angeles allow you to catch snippets of conversation in, like, 11 different languages, plus see a mind-boggling multiplicity of romantic pairings in even a single evening outing. (For real, I saw three lesbian couples and two trannies in love over the course of 90 minutes last night at Rambutan.)

For me, something about being surrounded by people who are nothing like me is always preferable to immersing myself in a swarm of sameness—no matter how hot some of said sameness may be.

Oh, and also, crowds just really freak me out.

Agree with me? Think I’m just afraid? Let me know, at TheBroadcastLA@gmail.com.