Since our first wannabe wedding I'd made a point of publicly referring to Katrine as my wife, gulping down my fears to face the dry cleaner's confusion, the haircutter's horror, the mortgage broker's veiled hostility in the interest of a bit of political provocation. Now the four-letter word I'd winced to use when I was legally married to a man but tossed around like confetti when I was illegally married to a woman -- the word that only a few weeks ago had sparked nervous laughter at best, animosity at worst -- triggered friendly smiles, congratulations or no reaction at all. Now I had something even stickier to swallow than my fear: my ambivalence about the kinder, gentler, less homophobic world I'd been so sure I wanted. Who will I be, I found myself wondering, if it's normal to be who I am?

I didn't have long to wonder before reality kicked in. My first clue was the sound of my sweetheart calling me to her desk, her voice choked with tears. Together we read the e-mail that had just appeared on her screen. The sender was the San Francisco city clerk. The subject line was "Supreme Court Decision." The date was March 12, four weeks before our wedding date. The message was brusque.

"By order of the California Supreme Court, the San Francisco County Clerk has been ordered to discontinue issuance of same-sex marriage licenses. Therefore all previously scheduled same-sex appointments are now cancelled."

"I knew it wouldn't last," said Katrine. "I wanted to really marry you," she cried.

"I wanted to really marry you too," I answered, surprised by the clutch in my throat that told me it was true. It struck me then that my ambivalence might have been more self-protective than I knew. Maybe I didn't want to join the party in case the neighbors complained and the cops shut it down. Maybe I found it easier to live with the world as it was -- homophobia and all -- than to risk living with the perilous hope that it might actually get better.

As the love fests were aborted in one city after another and the front-page profiles of ecstatic newlyweds were replaced by stories of honeymoons harpooned by homophobia, Katrine and I decided to console ourselves with a weekend honeymoon. Checking in at a bed-and-breakfast in a tourist town three hours from home, we instinctively assumed the position: standing an ambiguous distance apart, looking at each other with ambiguous eyes, speaking to each other in ambiguous tones. For the next two days -- hesitant to hold hands as we strolled through the picturesque streets, scoping out the vibe in each restaurant before we fed each other bits of food, kissing only in the privacy of our overpriced, Laura-Ashley-on-steroids room -- we were painfully reminded of how many risks we still take, how many prejudices we still challenge, just by being ourselves outside the Bay Area post-wedding-boom bubble.

Even inside it, where life is about as same-sex-safe as it gets; even now, when the Bay Area's still in the blush of mass-wedding afterglow, I don't kiss Katrine goodbye on the front porch if the neighbor's watching. I write an acknowledgment to her in every book I publish, but the bio on the more visible jacket flap always says, "Meredith Maran lives in Oakland," as if I live there alone. When I quote or mention Katrine in the talks I give, I sometimes tell the classic "queer lie for the straight guys," referring to her as my wife only when I'm confident that being gay won't keep my message from being heard, or me from being invited back.

Same-sex sitcoms, homo home decorating shows, gala gay days and other sure signs of progress notwithstanding, being gay is still far too exciting for most people -- including me -- in most places most of the time. Until that changes, we'll have being bored to look forward to.

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