A childhood friend of mine is getting married. And, inevitably, I have been invited to the bridal shower. I tried to think of an excuse not to go, but out of some sense of either habit or politeness, I found myself calling to R.S.V.P. Now I am dreading the occasion.
It is not that I begrudge my friends who, after years of swimming in the cold, black sea of dating, are finally settling for the calm kiddie pool of marriage. Nor do I dislike wearing chiffon and sitting through two hours of tea cakes and x-rated lingerie. What I truly dread are the questions.
Every time a friend takes the plunge, she seems to think her impending nuptials give her and her married bridesmaids the right to ask all single females over the age of 18 the same predictable questions: “When are you getting married?” “Are you dating anyone right now?” “Are you looking to date anyone right now?” “Would you like to meet my younger/older/recently divorced/ recently paroled brother?”
Failure to answer any of the above questions in a satisfactory manner often results in a large bouquet being tossed pointedly at your head directly after the ceremony.
So, in an attempt to avoid sharing details of my personal life in front of women named Boopsie and Muffy, and in hopes of getting at the tea cakes just a little bit sooner, I would like to take the opportunity to answer these questions right here, right now.
Yes, I would like to get married someday, but first I need to meet Mr. Right.
Note that by Mr. Right, I do not mean Mr. Okay, Mr. Decent or Mr. He-Needs-a-Therapist-and-a-Haircut-But-He’ll-Do-for-Now. I mean Mr. Right. Period. And after years of dating, I am beginning to doubt that such a man exists.
It is not that my standards are high, although I do require that all my dates brush their teeth regularly, do not smoke and possess IQs that at least match their shoe sizes. It is just that so many men, it seems, have been raised by wolves in the deepest jungles of Neverland, only to be released upon the human world at the age of puberty.
Take Al, for instance, a computer analyst I met at a party three weeks ago. He seemed decent, even funny, until he ended our first date early after his personal trainer paged him for an emergency workout.
Or Pete, a suave, muscled mechanic who discreetly left the table after dinner to call his girlfriend.
Even meeting men at church does not always work. Ralph, a soft-spoken Brad Pitt look-alike, had a belief in God that seemed tender, even charming. Then he insisted on ending our first date with a 45-minute prayer. It is not that I am against pre-marital prayer. I just was not sure what kind of protection to use.
Even when a man seems like Mr. Right, I have learned to proceed with caution. Inside of every Prince Charming there is a toad patiently waiting to emerge.
I thought I had finally hit the jackpot with Dan, an artist with a Tom Cruise smile and a Fabio body. I was ecstatic when, after three months, he asked me to meet his mother. But the hours spent perfecting my handshake and small talk were in vain. He took me home to meet an urn on the mantel. She did not even prepare hors d’oeuvres.
And what about Boyd? I thought he was someone special. Until he told me about his hobby. I realize that some people are “Star Trek” fans. I even watch occasionally. But believing that Mr. Spock is your biological father takes the obsession one step too far.
So, to all the Boopsies and Muffies of the world, there is your answer. I do plan to settle down someday, but I do not plan to settle for less than I deserve. I want to marry a man with quirks that are charming, not chancy. I want to meet Mr. Right, not Mr. Wrong with great pecs. And I am not willing to lower my standards for anyone.
Now what did you say about having a brother?
