It’s Only Love: Meet The Parents

When I compare meeting a boyfriend’s family with burning in the hellfires of eternal damnation, I would almost certainly always choose the latter. Why so drastic? Well, for starters I have anxiety, the attention span of a squirrel and Daria’s tone of voice. What that means is I will either shift my eyes from one corner of the room to another or make the kind of eye contact that makes you feel like I’m stealing your soul. It will either appear that I am not listening to you at all or that I’m trying way too hard to dissect every minute detail of every mundanity escaping your lips. Last but not least, I will probably sound like I don’t give a crap about anything. None of this is intentional. I’m just a nervous wreck.

Granted, I don’t have much experience in this department and that probably doesn’t help with my feelings of hopelessness. Having only ever had one serious boyfriend means that I have met exactly one pair of parentals and I was, like, seventeen when that happened. I was kinda just like, “‘Sup lady?” and went back to eating my Subway sandwich and blasting the same Strokes song for 45 minutes straight in my then boyfriend’s apartment. What impression did I make? Probably that of a stoner. But it’s ok, right? I was a kid. I was dumb and cool and nothing mattered.

Fast forward eight years and it’s just not cute anymore. I’m knocking on mid-twenty and I have no idea how to have a conversation with other peoples’ parents. My ability to have conversations with my own parents relies on the fact that I can make make fart jokes with them and swear after every other word. I mean, besides the fact that we love each other to death and all that other stuff. I just get unbelievably tongue tied whenever I’m in a situation where I can’t be my ridiculous, uncensored self.

Take, for example, this past weekend. I met my new boyfriend’s mother and I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a descendent of some extraterrestrial race. It’s not unusual for people to find me weird, so that’s really not the problem here. I feel like she thinks I have extensive brain damage and probably a questionable lifestyle. I was still hungover from an insane bender, I was wearing sweatpants and a crop top that says GANGSTA in bold, holographic letters and I could barely keep down three bites of my dinner. What’s not to love?

People say that first impressions are everything. I have always maintained that people deserve at least three strikes before they’re officially, forever dismissed and I can honestly only hope that this woman feels the same way. If anyone has some advice for me for a change you know where to reach me. I’ll be here, spooning gallons of Ben & Jerry’s into my face and questioning my entire existence. Am I overthinking this experience? Most likely. Am I suddenly going to take up an interest in whatever it is that this lady cares about so that she can like me? You bet your ass.

Got a meet the parents story of your own? Tell Celina, or ask her a question at [email protected]