Before coming to town with my dad
for a family event, my mother asked if she could extend her stay, solo, for a
few extra days. Against my better
judgment (we were not on great terms), I told her that she could stay as many
extra days as she was willing to cook, clean, and buy things I needed for my
apartment. She stayed two extra
days. She cooked once.
What she did, instead, after moving
from her weekend stay in the suburbs to my apartment downtown, was use those
two days to observe, superficially, my daily anxiety-ridden routine, gathering
ammunition and plotting her attack.
Her last morning in Chicago, she offered
to drop me off at work before heading to the airport. We stood by the door putting on our shoes as she
ever-so casually began, “I know you think you’re quirky and it’s cute, but your
anxiety is ruining your life.”
She was referencing an article I
wrote about how quirky is suddenly and oddly trending and how relieving that is for girls like
me. An article, mind you, she would not
have even known existed had I not sent it to her – as a courtesy – making her
unsolicited negative twist on it that much more impudent. Regardless, the blasé nature with which she
delivered this segue (and calling it a segue is even generous) did not properly
indicate what was about to unfold.
Reeling from that, we’ll call it,
thesis statement that had the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, I tuned out
for a minute, trying to get my bearings.
Her battle tactics were smart, catching me off-guard with no time to prepare. I tuned back in just in time to hear the
words “birth control.” Context unknown.
“Oh, I’m
off birth control,” I jumped in, hoping that factoid would be both relevant and
satisfactory.
“Yeah, all
that means to me is that you’re still not having sex.”
The disappointment was palpable. I wonder if, had I told her that I had accidentally
gotten knocked up after my shift at the strip club, she would have exhibited delight
or even pride. She paused in the
elevator and I hoped with every fiber of my being that it was over.
Clambering into the car, I felt
wounded, weakened from the attack. Like
Voldemort, she fed off my weakness; it energized her, made her feel only more powerful,
more entitled.
“You know, Jamie, this should be
the best time of your life. You should
be enjoying yourself, sleeping around. You
don’t want to marry the first guy you have sex with. / Don’t you want to be
dating? And I know you want kids. If you didn’t want kids, it wouldn’t matter,
but I know you do. / Why do you
refuse to take anxiety medication? I
think it would help you. Do you know why
you won’t, I mean, is there a reason?”
She went on.
And on.
And on. And somewhere in a last wave of assertions
came the very bold intimation that if I don’t start putting out, I will never
be able to get someone to date me.
I’m not even really sure where to
begin with that. Why is the implication that I don’t have
enough other, if any, good qualities that would be worth someone’s time? That all I could really offer someone is
sexuality and I’m not even doing that?
More importantly, why is it that
though there are plenty of people who ask significant others to wait for marriage
(which I’m not doing) and even more people who expect to be dating someone for
longer than an hour before having sex with them, that my expectations about
intimacy are unreasonable? Sex, for these
obvious freaks, isn’t a way to lure someone in, it’s a step in a relationship. (I’d imagine it falls somewhere between having
dinner and moving in together.) And yet,
somehow, my asking someone to be a little patient (What’s the rule? Six dates?)
is different. But, is it?
Maybe she’s right. Maybe the root cause of my singleness is a
lack of sexual connection. (Or maybe
it’s just a lack of Jesus because those kids seem to have it all figured out.)
And then, this happened. Two weeks ago, I went to Florida for a
wedding; the rest of the bridal party and I got in on Thursday for the combo
bachelor/bachelorette party. The girls
started the evening with a nice dinner before going to meet the boys, the bride
obligatorily covered in penis paraphernalia.
One glass of wine in, I received
back-to-back texts from my mother (in California):
Crazy Moobs (how my mother appears
in my phone): Jamie. Do you remember when you had your first drink
and you said to me I can’t believe I wasted all that time. Well…
Crazy Moobs: You don’t need to repeat that text to your
friends :) I love you. Have a great weekend.
Very confused not only as to why
this conversation needed to be happening right then (she knew where I was and
what I was doing), but mostly, what
the conversation was, I asked the obvious follow-up questions, like what the
hell she was talking about and why I wasn’t allowed to share that I was
destined to be a lush. She responded
with an equally obvious observation that I was “missing” what she was saying. She continued:
Crazy
Moobs: My text isn’t appropriate.
Jamie: I don’t think I understand what’s
happening. Can you start over
Jamie: R u drunk
Crazy Moobs: No I’m not drunk. I’m trying to tell you not to be a 30 year
old virgin
I laughed partly because of my
inability to have any other kind of reaction given my current surroundings,
though it was mostly out of discomfort.
Jamie: Hahaha why r u texting me that right now
Crazy Moobs: I’m not sure why I’m texting it right
now. It just came to me that you said
that about drinking and you are wasting time.
Presumed Meaning: She knew I was getting drunk on a vacation in
Florida and assumed a bachelorette party/wedding would be the perfect opportunity
to get drunk and get laid.
Crazy Moobs: OMG can you imagine grandma saying that to me
I’m actually still not sure whether
that was to imply her level of sluttiness in her younger days (and therefore
lack of need for a talk like this) or my Grandmother’s better sense of tact.
Jamie: No. I can’t even imagine you saying it to me.
Crazy Moobs: I know but let’s get with the program
Another
“successful” sex talk from my mother.