“Mom. That was for a stag.”
“Stag or not, it’s inappropriate.”
“That was last year.”
“But you still go out with your group of buddies every other weekend. It’s not a good image. You’re supposed to outgrow that once you’re done with your twenties. I waited patiently. Very. Patiently. But it’s time you grew up.”
“I have never missed a day of work in ten years.”
“Work isn’t all there is to life! I thought we raised you better than this. We raised you to respect other people. What you’re doing now, it’s not respectful to anyone. It’s not respectful to yourself.”
If I said that everything I’ve ever done has definitely been consensual, would it dig me deeper into the shit pile I’m drowning in at the moment? Right, I know it would, so I bite down on the urge to insert snarky, immature comments. For the record, my mom is blowing this way out of proportion. I do have a good group of friends, and we do hang out. Some of them are married—a small number. Their wives or girlfriends often come out too. It’s not like I hang out with a bunch of guys who are on the bachelors-for-life bandwagon, and we go out and atrociously live it up every other weekend. That’s not what happens.
We do normal things. Watch sports. Drink a few beers. Have BBQs. Hot tub. Go out for dinner and drinks. Go to live games. Normal guy things. It slightly picks my ass that my mom is using this as if I tear it up every weekend, getting so hammered I can’t remember my own name. And as for the dating thing, or rather, the one-night stand thing, I do casual encounters here and there. Sometimes two lonely people like to connect and go their separate ways. No strings. No expectations. It is not any more or less than that, and it does not happen chronically. I enjoy being single, and I’m in no hurry to mingle.
My mom is just taking the proverbial molehill and turning it into a mountain of reasons as to why they should threaten to disinherit me for the millionth time.
“Mom—”
“I’m not finished!” Mom crosses her arms. She has this, I mean business and I seriously mean it, look on her face that actually does silence me, because that’s her don’t mess with me look, and she’s only brought it out a few times that I can ever remember.
The first time I saw it, I was nine and had decided to try and drive my dad’s car. I ended up driving it right through the garage door. The second time was when, at thirteen, I thought dying the swimming pool neon pink might be fun. The third time, I was sixteen and threw a party while they were away on business for the weekend, and to say that things got out of hand is an understatement. The police were called, the swimming pool was dyed a few shades of colors, none of which were pink, and the inside of the house looked like I’d driven a horde of angry dad cars through it.
So yeah. That look is not good.
“Since you are never going to get around to actually changing your way of living and giving new experiences a try, I’ve taken things into my own hands. I’ve hired a dating service.”
“A what?” Boom! My jaw hits the floor, comic book style balloon popping sound effect included.
“A dating service.” Mom wipes at her eyes, which are starting to leak.
My mom is just shy of sixty, and my dad is a few years older than she is. They tried for a long time to have me, and just when they thought things were going right, she went into labor two months early. She ended up having a whole bunch of complications after I was born and had to have a hysterectomy. I’ve always felt kind of bad about that, even though it wasn’t my fault. I know how much my mom loves kids, and she and my dad always wanted a big family. They’ve never made me feel like I had to live up to it or make up for it, but I’m getting some seriously disappointed, desperate vibes from her at the moment.
“I met with a very nice lady. She is very good at what she does, as is her entire agency. They’re a discreet service for hire. They do all the work to find you a series of matches. It’s completely personalized, and there are a series of interviews that every single person follows, including you, so that they can find you the right match. I’ve already paid them in advance. If you don’t like the first match, or it’s not a good fit, they will find up to two more. You have three chances.”
“The three-strikes system,” I bite out more than a little sarcastically. “I like it.”
My mom starts biting down hard on her bottom lip, and I know it’s so she doesn’t say something she’s going to regret later. I’ve seen her do that a ton of times over the years. In my defense, I think my nuts just went on a little mom-induced vacay. Being a grown man and thinking about your mom being in charge of your love life, let alone your reproductive future, is a little, well… castrating, shall we say.
I never thought it would come to this. How did it come to this?
My mom knows me well because she takes a deep breath and hurries to inform me of one other tiny little detail. “If you refuse to give your interview or refuse to participate in this, then you are cut off. You are fired from your job, and you will make your own way. We will, of course, always be your parents, but as for the company or any financial help or inheritance, you’re on your own.”
“You can’t fire me from my job!” Great, now I’m whining. This is not looking good for me in any way. “I’ve put in ten years there! I’m good at my job. I like my job! I’ve worked hard for it!”
Mom crosses her arms. She gives me a look I’ve never seen from her. I’ll just classify it as something close to a death glare to end all death glares. “It might not be fair, but this is the way it’s going to be because I know you won’t go through with this unless there are consequences. I just want you to be happy. I’m not asking you to get married, or even force things to work out, because that’s not why I set this up. I’m asking that you give something new a try. Something you are apparently never going to do on your own. I want you to give it a genuine chance, and if it doesn’t work out, then that is what it is, but I do expect you to try, and to try with an open mind. You’re in a rut, and you need a shove out of it.”
“Did it ever occur to you that some people like being single?”
Mom’s face falls, and I can see how much I’ve disappointed her, and that’s yet another dagger straight to my shriveled-up heart area. “Cliff, you aren’t one of those people. I can tell you’re not happy, and you haven’t been for years. You’re burying yourself in work, and while we appreciate the effort and time you’ve put into the company over the years, you need a not so subtle shove out of that rut.”
“What rut?” I’m starting to think there’s a good chance my mom has lost her mind.
“You know what rut I’m talking about. This is just a shove. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work, but until those three strikes are up, consider yourself taking a two-week vacation.”
“What? You’re telling me I can’t work?”
Now my mom is nodding, and my dad is following suit. I stare at him in shock. I can’t believe he was in on this, or that, at the very least, he’s supporting it.
“So, if I take two weeks and don’t go on your crazy dates and meet equally crazy people through some stupid crazy agency, then that’s it? Find another job. Sell my assets. Don’t bother coming home?”