And suddenly, somehow, without quite realizing it, The Wedding Date and I have been dating for six months.
We celebrated our anniversary unwittingly (six months came and went with our visit to the art museum) and it wasn’t until after the fact that we even bothered to calculate how long we’d been dating. This, of course, prompted a debate on when we started dating—were we counting from July (when we first met), from September (when we went on our first date), or from December (when I finally came to my senses and stoppd seeing Date #7)? We discussed the pros and cons of each date and, with the help of some revisionist history, finally settled upon the night of our first date, six months ago.
Of course choosing your anniversary is the same as choosing a birthday for a dog you got from the pound: it doesn’t mean anything unless you make it mean something. This, I suppose, might explain why The Wedding Date decided it was finally time to meet his parents (and why he suggested I take the train from Philadelphia to do so).
After meeting The Wedding Date’s kids, I was pretty sure I could handle meeting his parents (so long as they didn’t make me feel like an idiot for not speaking Spanish) so I threw on my favorite sundress and headed to the train station with TWD’s copy of “Love in the Time of Cholera” tucked under my arm.
(Yes, he’s read “Love in the Time of Cholera” and yes, we both agreed—without actually saying it aloud—that taking train would be more “romantic” than simply driving. Deal with it. I think I deserve a bit of whimsy after the past eighteen months.)
Our attempted rendezvous, of course, turned out to be more romantic comedy than romantic. I thought he was going to meet me at the station but he thought I was going to call him when I arrived so we both decided to strike out on our own: me to his office, just a block away, and he to the train station, via a different street.
“Where are you?” I hissed into my cell phone from the lobby of his building.
“At the train station,” he replied. “Where are you?”
“At your office.”
So much for romance.
Eventually, we made our way to the restaurant—a Spanish place—and ordered a huge pitcher of sangria while waiting for his parents to arrive. It was then that TWD started getting anxious and seeing him nervous made me nervous.
I’m a nice girl. I really am. But I’ve never really hit it off with any of my boyfriend’s parents—especially their mothers. In high school, I wasn’t liberal enough for my boyfriend’s mom; in college I was too liberal. TWD assured me his parents would love me but when they stepped into the restaurant, I started to panic. They had perfect hair. Like really perfect hair—even his dad. And his mom had a proper manicure. And eye liner. And there I was in my ridiculously bright sundress with a funky beaded necklace and not a scrap of eye liner. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was how my mom felt when she met my dad’s parents—who weren’t exactly known for being warm and fuzzy— for the first time.
But then we started talking about skiing. And Europe. And the minute his dad mentioned that he and TWD’s mother loved Venice, I knew I was in. There are, after all, few things I do better than gush about Europe.
After the meal, TWD’s father told me the story of where he was when TWD was born (which is almost as remarkable as the story of where my father was when I was born) and his mom squeezed my arm before whispering, “We’ll have to do this again.”
(And I’m fairly certain she meant it.)
No sooner had TWD tucked me into the passenger seat of his car than his phone rang. It was his dad.
I waited patiently, doing my best to eavesdrop whilst not appearing to do so, but finally I couldn’t take it anymore. “What did he say???” I demanded.
“He said I went the wrong way on a one way street.”
“They liked you.”
- I’m Pretty Sure He Was Talking to My Bra (fieldworkinstilettos.com)
- How To Tell You’re Becoming an Old Lady (fieldworkinstilettos.com)
- Finally: The Wedding Date’s Kids (fieldworkinstilettos.com)