My partner and I are both going through withdrawal. It ain’t pretty.

We’re not addicted to drugs, alcohol, porn, sex, love, cigarettes, texting or gambling. I’ll bet you a case of gin we’re not.

No, our addictions have a lesbian flair. Anne is mad for the Seattle Lesbian & Gay Film Festival, while I’m obsessed with women’s professional basketball.

I realize the WNBA players and fans are far from strictly lesbian, but I say we keep that a secret.

From May to October, I’m either glued to my seat in Key Arena to watch the Seattle Storm or I’m glued to the television to gaze upon other teams. I prefer watching the Storm, of course, but my addiction is real and if I don’t watch some women’s hoop every few days, my hands get clammy.

The Storm, league champions last year, lost in the first round of the playoffs this season. Naturally, I was distraught. But a true fan — addict — must continue, so I watched the rest of the playoffs and the finals, where some damn team that wasn’t the Storm beat some other damn team that wasn’t the Storm.

Now, it’s approximately 15 days, four hours and 38 minutes from the last game of the season, and wow, is it clear that I’m in the grip of basketball withdrawal. I blurt out “Go Storm!” at unpredictable intervals. I set up my Storm-player bobbleheads in a zone defense. I draw the WNBA trophy in my oatmeal.

I miss the athletic exploits, like when a guard weaves around four defenders to get to the basket, or when I weave around 10 kids to get to the bathroom. I miss the competition, the drama, the socializing. Good God, I even miss the security line. Somebody needs a 12-step program, quick.

Relief is not far off. Women’s college basketball begins soon. While that will satisfy my hoop hunger, I have one problem with the college game: The players keep getting remarkably younger.

As I drift along in my dismal state, Anne is looking pretty pitiful, too. Normally, she blocks out the 10 days of the Seattle Lesbian & Gay Film Festival on her calendar. She agrees to go to work and feed herself, but everything else comes second to the movies. If my appendix were to rupture, she’d rush me to the hospital — immediately after the conclusion of the documentary on Maori gay youth.

Obviously Anne loves movies, but the 10-day hit of just LGBT movies is an ultimate high for her. The organizers of the film festival are her dealers. Bet they never thought of themselves that way before.

This year various forces made grueling demands on Anne’s time, and at this writing, eight days into the festival, she has seen just one movie. The result? Anne comes home, hands the dog her “ticket” and demands buttered popcorn for dinner.

She’s planning her attack on the remaining films. At this moment Anne is cloistered with the festival guide; she’s speaking to it as lovingly as she would to me. She aims to see as many films as she can over these last two days. It’s time to mainline.

If she starts mixing her drugs — running back and forth between the lesbian shorts and a transgender musical — then I’ll start to worry.

I plan to accompany her today and tomorrow. I’m the designated driver, in case she goes blind from staring at too many screens. But, if one of the movies turns out to be about women’s basketball, neither one of us will be in a fit state to drive. : :

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