Apparently I’ve finally reached the age.
I don’t know whether to laugh or to go hide under a quilt for a few days.
Oh. My. God.
So I called my grandmother a few days ago. Conversation was normal, or as normal as it ever is. I’m praying for you. Well, I’m praying for you. Are you eating? Every day. What’s it like there? Very English, Grandma. Well, the better to be polite to you, my dear.
And then it comes…it being a common question and a fairly uncommon rejoinder. The question; “So have you met any nice men there?” My grandma’s been asking me that since I was six and first went to the corner store all by myself, so no big deal. But the follow up, when I said well, no, not really meeting anybody that lights my fire these days, was…
“Well, get a move on, sweetie. After all, you’re not getting any younger.”
This is my grandma, so no big deal. Like I said, she’s been saying this kind of thing to me since before I could even spell the word man, so I tend to sort of brush all that sort of thing off when it’s coming from her.
Then I had three separate conversations with three entirely separate people in three entirely different countries(!) on the subject of singleness. One man, two women. All three conversations were half lecture, half encouragement, the lecture bit being about the eternally noncommittal status of several platonic friendships of mine, and the encouragement being even more poorly disguised lecture about being single.
It was very weird. In one day, I had two different people who don’t know each other, say to me these exact sentences, “I think it’s time for love in your life, don’t you? You don’t want to wait until it’s too late.” Neither of these people was my grandma, just for the record. In fact, they’re all my age or just slightly older. The third person was even more blunt and to the point, saying, “You’re getting too old to stay single.” If I hadn’t been so busy looking for my denture gel I would have beaten her azz, but it’s best I didn’t anyway. Gotta be careful not to break a hip. And HEY! Turn that noise down! In my day we had music you could dance to, not this filth-flarn-filth…
I’m suddenly befriending a lot of middle-aged Muslim women. And the number one question I get asked when meeting these women is not, what is your name or where are you from? It’s how old are you? And why don’t you have a husband? Quickly followed with, oh, well we can fix that…let me introduce you to my nephew’s son…I know he has three eyes and a vestigial tail, but his heart is good, I promise…
What the hell?
Icing on the cake; my mother, who (I suppose) justifiably hates men and everything having to do with that half of the human race, announces to me, during a rare and random phone conversation, “Do you know what? You need a boyfriend. A nice Nigerian or something.” I actually had to stop and look at the phone to be sure I was talking to my mother and not the Grand High Gblork Blork of Mars or something.
Sprinkles on the icing; for Christmas, ages ago now but still pertinent to this blog, someone actually offered to buy me a membership to some internet meet ‘n mate site. There are a million other gifts I would prefer, and this person knows that (hell, I’ll just take the 49.95 a month, when it comes down to it…are you reading this?) but somehow, when reviewing all the things that I need and would benefit from as a gift…the best option is apparently a membership to sadpersonwhonevergetsoutofthehouse.com or some similar thing.
Am I missing something here?
Are people going to be doing this to me for the rest of my life?
*runs to match.com*