"Some days even my lucky rocketship underpants don't work." -Calvin & Hobbes

Monday, September 12, 2011

White Girl Problems


Babies are cute. To my dismay, they become more and more adorable in collaboration with this annoying ticking sound that seems to be coming from my uterus.  But is it actually coming from me, or have friends and family somehow strapped a hypothetical time bomb to my back?

When I was younger, I used to tell my mom that I didn’t want any kids. This was partially to remain steadfast to the evil teenager character that I played for so long (I’m my mother’s only child, therefore her only hope for grandchildren), but also because I really didn’t think that I should have children. “I would be a terrible mother! I’m crazy! I would be such an awful mess and drive my children to drink!” I presumed.

Then I realized something; Parents are crazy. It’s pretty much a prerequisite for having children. The fact that I am not a raging alcoholic at this point in my life is truly an accomplishment.

These days, I have so many friends who are getting married and having children, not necessarily in that order, and a butt load of people hounding me about why I’m not in that boat. My mind has been in a vicious tug-o-war with itself, as I am always so adamant to do the opposite of what everyone wants me to do (i.e. get married, have children), but then when I see the little rug rats and they look so peaceful, the rope gets tugged the opposite way.

About a year ago, my brother, who is ten years my junior and still in high school, said to me,
“Hey Sissy, when are you going to settle down and have some kids? I think I’m ready to be an uncle.”
How convenient! You’re ready? Oh good, because this Perfect Man that I have been hiding in my garage has been getting antsy to get out and start our Perfect Family.

My sister, 12 years my junior, has been bugging me since the day I graduated from college about how much she wants to be the flower girl in my wedding. Now that she is almost sixteen, she is still trying to come to terms with the fact that she is probably too old to be a flower girl and will have to settle for bridesmaid, if the day ever comes. I think it would be an awesomely evil joke to make her a middle aged flower girl. That will teach her to pressure her older sister.

Then there is Big Gay Joe, my obviously gay cousin, who has titled himself my wedding planner for this non-existent wedding and reception. Joe also has a checklist of requirements for any potential suitor of mine. “How do you know if you like him yet? I haven’t even met him!” has been heard coming from his big gay mouth after I come back from a date.
On more than one occasion, when we are out in public together and BGJ sees someone who he finds suitably attractive for me, he will grab my arm and exclaim, “This is my cousin! She’s single!” while the poor stranger smiles politely and pretends not to have fully understood what was said, attempting to avoid the incredibly awkward situation.
Joe’s checklist has gotten progressively shorter over the years and now he is finding less and less importance in “Lindsay’s Husband’s Requirements.” Soon there may only be one box with “Is willing to marry Lindsay” next to it, sadly waiting to be checked off.

Of course there is Rita, my crazy, 89 year old grandmother, who is not-so-silently awaiting my non-existent wedding. She wants so badly to be able to attend her favorite grandchild’s nuptials to a (her words) handsome rich man. This woman has at least another ten good years in her, but I just don’t know if that is going to be enough.

My cousin, Dan, got married a little over a year ago. His mother had the rehearsal dinner at her house. I think that about half the people who were invited to the wedding were also at the rehearsal dinner. My family really knows how to indulge in a drink or two (or twelve) and people had to be sent out on multiple beer runs, since the garage refrigerator and multiple ice buckets were emptied quite quickly. I wasn’t drinking, which always makes family functions much more difficult, and involves not only having to smile and nod at the dumb things that a (select few) family members say, but then have to listen to it more than once. I will hear the same thing multiple times that night, and then again the next day because said person won’t remember previously telling me the story. The running joke between me and my cousins is, “Just a thumb!” which is what Rita says every time a refill on her wine is offered. Somehow though, an arthritic thumb equals three normal person thumbs. I am pretty sure that I will be getting horrible arthritis for laughing at this, as karma. 

Out on Aunt Lynn’s patio, smiling politely at Rita while she wobbles with her “thumb” of wine, she asks me, “So, have you met anyone interesting?”
Oh Lord. Doing my best to skirt the question, I respond, “Grandma, everyone I have met is interesting!”
“Oh, you know what I mean!” She says, wanting a different answer from me. Let it be known, Rita is both shocked and appalled that I live with two female roommates and not one of us currently has a boyfriend. I have two gay cousins, and I am afraid that she might be thinking that there may be another gay in the fam. While a lesbian would be a nice addition to my family, unfortunately, my singledom is purely from lack of worthy men, not from closeted gayness (sorry ladies).

The next morning, a sobered up Rita asked me, “So, did you meet anyone interesting last night?”
Realizing that she didn’t remember last night’s conversation, I used the same line and innocently said, “Grandma, everyone I met last night was interesting!” This comment received another smile/glare from good ol’ Rita and I quickly segued into talk of the wedding that was to be taking place that night.

The notion that a wedding is a great place to find a mate is pure crap. A wedding is a gathering of friends and family and I don’t necessarily want these people watching me flirt with boys, nor do I think that many boys will want to flirt with me if they catch a glimpse of me on the dance floor. I can’t dance for the life of me and I sweat more than I care to talk about, so while I might look cleaned up and fancy for a while, that is short lived after the music starts and I flail around, dancing like I’m having a seizure. It’s not pretty.

Getting to Dan and Michelle’s wedding the next afternoon was oh-so-fun, as I was put in charge of getting the two grandmas and an aunt safely to the country club. Luckily it was a short drive, so listening to Rita ask, “Danny has some cute friends, don’t you think?” was through quickly enough, and after I got the old ladies out of my car and safely into the club, I was able to escape to the sanctuary of my teenage brothers and sister. Or so I thought.

The second I walked up to them, Drew informed me, “OK, Sissy. We decided on the drive over here that when Michelle throws the bouquet, the three of us are going to hold everyone else back so you catch it.”
At that point I started scanning the room for an escape route and/or someone, anyone, who I could go talk to who wasn’t going to give me any shit about getting hitched. Nothing. The only person who would of be any help at this point is Dan, who guards me like a protective older brother and mad dogs any boy who even says ‘hi’ to me. But he was the groom, and was obviously too busy with his own wedding to help me avoid the family planning mine.

I find the bouquet toss at weddings to be a horrible and demeaning tradition, second only to the removal and flinging of the garter. Drunken single women fighting over a flower arrangement that is destined to dry up and die within a matter of hours is a bit pathetic. It also draws more attention to the fact that I am single. Why don’t we just go all out and make me wear a sign that says “unemployed” while I am standing out there, just to finish me off? Maybe if it was a sandwich instead of flowers being thrown, I would be more interested.

So when I was sitting on the toilet peeing, with my dress pulled up around my waist and my underwear around my knees and heard the DJ say, “Oooookay! I’m going to need all the single ladies to come on out to the dance floor at this time!” I was quite relieved that I had chosen such an opportune time to use the restroom. But then as I was washing my hands, I heard BeyoncĂ©’s “Single Ladies” song slowly fade and the DJ say into the microphone, “So we are missing someone. Sissy. Where is Sissy?” Drew, I am never going to forgive you for this one. My siblings have called me “Sissy” since the moment they could talk, which I've always found endearing. Hearing it over the country club’s sound system calling me out to the group of single women on the dance floor made my unmarried walk of shame all that much worse.

I stood as close to the rear of the pack as I could and held my sister firmly in front of me, blocking the path of the airborne embarrassment bouquet. A special thanks to Michelle, for not throwing it in my direction.

By the way, when my other cousin, Matt, got married seven months later, this same thing happened. I wandered off right before Lori was about to throw the bouquet, but once again I was found and sent to the dance floor to stand among the other singletons.

But back to Dan and Michelle’s wedding. The morning after it there was a brunch for some of the friends and family members before people left town. It was certainly an action packed weekend, but I guess if you are the first of four boys to tie the knot, you get quite the to-do. I wasn’t hung over, as many people were, but I was grumpy from being around certain family members for such an extended amount of time. Once again, I found myself being bombarded by Rita, who once again, asked me, “Sooo, did you talk to anyone interesting last night?”

I am not joking people. She asked me this exact question three times that weekend. So with an exasperated smile, I once again told her, “Yes, I met a lot of interesting people this weekend.” She rolled her eyes and continued drinking her coffee, when my aunt came up to us. “Did you have fun last night, Lindsay?”

“Yes, Auntie Lynn, I did! It was such a beautiful wedding.” I responded.

“Wasn’t it?” She asked. “And did you meet anyone interesting?”