Meeting the Parents: My True Story

In high school, I tried the boyfriend thing. In classic bad boy meets good girl form, I fell hard for a tattooed bass player who wrote predictable, brooding poetry. He delicately strummed my ribs and drummed down my spine with his musician's hands and called me "his porcelain instrument". I went to the shows he played, religiously paying service to the altar of puppy love. I stuck out amidst the sea of black shirts and dark eyeliner wearing my Gap turtleneck sweaters, politely swaying to the music while everyone else flailed around and slammed into one another.

At one show, his parents somehow snuck in to support their son. While both parties were content to uncomfortably stand on the fringes of the writhing crowd, my boyfriend chose to force a meeting. He cursorily introduced me to his parents, mispronounced my last name, and promptly stranded me. Completely out of my element already, I grinned awkwardly, shook hands, and futilely tried to stop over analyzing the conversation. His parents ended up loving me but I had to take into consideration the girls who he'd dated before me. I fear that their approval stemmed more from my ability to speak proper English and abstinence from alcohol or drugs rather than from a glowing first impression. Our love affair ended after much melodrama and I spent the rest of my high school career casually dating while laughing at, but never commiserating with, my friends who were navigating the intricacies of actual relationships.

Much to my surprise, once at college I found myself falling in love with and eventually dating Tyler. In the beginning of freshman year we traded sarcastic, sober comments in a room of drunken peers and became inseparable. Tyler was on the opposite end of the spectrum from my first boyfriend; ruggedly attractive, preppy dresser, and exuberantly athletic. Since he lived no where near me, I figured I was safe from the anxiety and pressure that meeting a boyfriend's family entails. He had come to college dating his high school sweetheart, and while it was never my intention to break them up it was easy to see that I might have had some influence. Thus, I was in no hurry to combat the college hussy, home wrecker persona that surely preceded me in his circle of family and friends. The stark contrast between past and present wasn't just between blonde and brunette; she is a peppy, outgoing, social butterfly who had been a family favorite and I am a sarcastic, reserved, book worm who was a complete stranger. At this point I had some inclination of my boyfriend's inherited competitive spirit, and I couldn't help but fear they would be betting against me.

As the weeks we'd been dating turned into months, it became clear that meeting them was inevitable. The initial foray into a serious relationship was made, and we traveled together to each other's homes. My house was first, and it was a relatively painless vacation because it was easy for my parents to like Tyler. My mom had started to envision showing pictures of my cats instead of grandchildren to co- workers because I had never expressed any interest in being a blushing bride. Tyler probably could have not said a word the entire time and my mom would have still secretly called him son-in-law in her head. Relieved to have some testosterone in the house, my dad bypassed the "What are your intentions with my daughter?" speech and was simply happy to have someone in the house to discuss golf with. My parents happily bade us good bye and I somberly watched the rear-view mirror as my comfort zone faded into the horizon.

The five hour drive to meet his family was not long enough. I stared out the window, thinking of all the things I shouldn't say: "I know, isn't he strong? One time he actually had to carry me home from a party!" or "We have lots in common... like a healthy libido and an affinity for dirty jokes". I fervently prayed for a flat tire or a detour to no avail; we pulled into the driveway and when my foot hit the gravel I fought waves of nausea. I've never been adept at making small talk unless I was flirting my way through it, and while I was desperate... I discarded that approach. The door opened and I managed to quell my anxiety long enough to bare my teeth in something that resembled a smile. After the initial stilted conversation had eased into relatively comfortable chatter, I was delighted to realize that my boyfriend's parents were not actually the new-girlfriend eating monsters that I had imagined. As we ate dinner, my shoulders gradually sunk back down to their natural position instead of being hunched next to my ears. His family chatted with a jovial, teasing nature that put me at ease, and I ventured to ask a few polite questions, feeling foolish that I had been so petrified. By the end of the first night I felt fairly confident that I hadn't made such a dismal impression that they would give their son any incentive to get rid of me.

The next morning, my self-assurance came to a screeching halt. My face blanched with the announcement of the evening's activities: bowling and meeting his grandparents. Up until that point, I'd been able to avoid pointing out my lack of sporting ability by playing board games and going biking. I quickly excused myself from the dinner table and furtively locked the bathroom door to feverishly dial the one person who I thought could offer useful advice. My ever helpful mother suggested faking a spontaneous broken finger, or a deep fear of public footwear. In light of how well things had been going I naively said to myself "How competitive can anyone get over bowling?" and decided to soldier on.

Bowling alleys are like a cultural carnival. The concession stand radiated that peculiar odor of grease and calories that coats your entire body the minute you walk in the door; which only added to the gloomy mood that I couldn't seem to cajole myself out of. The psychedelic colors that decorated the walls in preparation for late night black lights enhanced the carnival-esque ambiance. You can't help but gawk at the exhibit of heavily tattooed women chawing on bubble gum, beam at the perfect family, as they encourage each other and sip on sodas, and surreptitiously sneak glances at the impossibly young gaggle of girls sharing cigarettes and flirting shamelessly with the skanky ball monkey who swaggers from lane to lane. As I surveyed the typical crowd while waiting in line to get a ball, I decided that the subconscious comparison of me to who else Tyler could be dating was a definite plus.

Squeezing my feet into the clown shoes that make everyone look ridiculous, I mustered up a mega watt smile to flash at Tyler's grandparents and hoped for the best. His grandmother opened her suspiciously large purse, and pulled out her own bowling ball. My palms broke into a cold sweat, quickly becoming pruney from the anxiety that oozed out of my pores. I was unsettled further when the distribution of teams was brought up. Until then I hadn't questioned the assumption that I'd be automatically partnered with my boyfriend; who was the most inclined to love me in spite of my bowling score. Amplifying the cutthroat atmosphere, the women were pitted against the men and I was teamed with his very competitive mother and grandmother. My stomach lurched and it felt like I had a couple dozen buffaloes stampeding in my stomach as I edged up to the lane. I desperately grasped at the hope that perhaps my bowling skills had somehow aged like wine. As the garish, highlighter yellow bowling ball meandered down the lane I had to wonder why we couldn't have played Trivial Pursuit, Scrabble, or done group crossword puzzles. When that glowing ball defied me and politely evaded the pins at the end of the lane, I knew that the night was going to follow suit. An obnoxious little voice in my head told me to make the best of the situation, but it was easily silenced amidst the alley's blaring metal music.
As I pivoted back to the gallery of relatives it was obvious that I was gaining points with the male side of the family as they chuckled at my pitiful attempts; finally a girl's claims of inadequacy had been more than attempts at feminine modesty. This dubious accomplishment was quickly forgotten when the slightly nauseated grimaces on two of the most influential women in my boyfriend's life clued me in to the grave I was digging. A grave that would never be in their family plot judging from this night, and I couldn't quiet the insidious thought that his previous girlfriend had probably been a champion bowler.
The night progressed like a boxing match with an aging champion; I kept stepping up, futilely bowling, and getting knocked out. His grandmother, the most competitive family member present, attempted to coach me through clenched teeth. While it is amusing in retrospect to watch someone waver between polite encouragement and outbursts of incredulous frustration; that night I probably would have sacrificed an organ or three to have been blessed with more hand-eye coordination than Helen Keller.

The seemingly interminable experience eventually ended several games later, and I practically fainted with relief. On the trip back to his house, my dear, athletically gifted boyfriend plaintively asked why I had been so nervous, didn't I have fun? In spite of my self induced embarrassment and anxiety, his entire family seemed to accept me once the heat of competition had waned and I regained confidence as the visit progressed. Still, every time that I go home with him, someone always seems to make a joke about bowling that sends shivers down my spine. Even driving by a bowling alley makes me cringe a little, not just because I was so discomfited and tense that night but because I put myself under such ludicrous pressure to try and make a great impression. With any luck that will be the last time that I have to meet a new boyfriend's parents, but the entire episode leads me to consider the advantages of being married off by your father; and consequently meeting your husband's family at the same time you met him.