Last night I spoke to a reference who met the maternal interrogator in person.
“She sat me down for a full interview,” the reference assured me. “She asked if you were ready to get married.”
How’s that for a question? I’m not sure I could answer it myself. What does it mean to be “ready to get married”?
Does it mean I’m dying to get hitched? Because I’m not. My attitude isn’t “let me prove that I can be the wife your son wants” so much as “prove to me that it’s worth giving up my independence for your son.” Yes, I want to get married, but I’m not throwing myself at males.
Maybe it means that I’m able to take on the grave responsibility of a household? That I can do. I’ve been balancing my own budget for eons. I can pinch pennies so hard they shriek in pain. I can make lasagna and brownies and potato kugel. I can vacuum, when I remember to. And I just adore doing dishes. That’s why my parents permit me to do them so often.
But maybe I have to be willing to buckle down to the responsibilities of a household? See point #1. If someone is worth it, I’ll do it.
Or perhaps I need to understand what a grave responsibility marriage is? Well I do, which is why I’m so reluctant to rush into it. Committing for life is, well, committing for life. It’s not something I’m ready to do lightly after 6 dates, even accompanied by a background check that would put the FBI to shame.
Mostly the mother seems worried that I’m a bit high-spirited, something apparently incompatible with the serious, dedicated business of marriage. I both agree and disagree. First of all, I happen to enjoy enjoying myself (I suspect that’s a common enough fault), and I don’t intend to give it up without a fight. And at the moment I’m single, so why shouldn’t I have fun while I can? Besides, presumably whoever is marrying me is marrying me, high spirits and all.
Second of all, people tend to get more boring post-nuptials as a general rule, no matter how exciting they are before. Haven’t you ever seen a scrapbook from your parents’ pre-children days? Or noticed any change in your brother- or sister-in-law as the years pass? How rapidly they go from being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed fillies to pleasant and matronly mares. (Obviously the mixed metaphor only applies to females, but you can extrapolate to the men, I’m sure.) Boringness grows with a family.
In other words, I’m confident that I’ll become an utterly nondescript source of yawns within a few years—no worry, Mrs. Mother.
And what did my friend reply to this question? “I don’t think I’m qualified to answer that.” Now that’s a good friend (and she’s married too!). I ought to send her a kugel one erev Shobbos.