I have a list! How cool is that?
Actually, I’ve had one for a few weeks now, but wasn’t aware of it, due to dater’s apathy. I actually had the following conversation one night:
“You’re going to get all dolled up Thursday night!” That’s my mother speaking. (Why can’t people ever say things like that to me without sounding gleeful?)
“Why am I doing that?” I turned one eye from my inbox.
“Because you’re going on a date.”
“Oh.” Eye returned to screen.
“Care to know with who?”
“Would you like to know his information?” (Love that. “His information.” Like “his records,” “his file”…)
“I guess – it will probably come in handy.”
“It’s in my inbox – I’ll need the computer.”
“Oh, no rush.”
And to think only a year ago (or is it approaching two years? Yikes!) I eagerly requested all the gory details. I’m quite lucky to have parents to take care of this stuff for me, because if it was up to me to find me dates, I’d have bought a lifetime subscription to Spinster magazine long ago.
Anyway, it’s really too bad I was so out of it. If I’d have known I was a girl with a list, I would have walked straighter, stepped with a swagger, and held my head high, the better to gaze down my nose at the girls who are merely on lists instead of having them.
I’m a girl with a list.
OK, so it’s a list only two people long, and right now one of those people is female.
It happened like this: When I pushed this fellow off because of finals, his mother either was incredibly bored, or couldn’t imagine what kind of freak pushes off dating for finals, because she hit the phones again to gather information about me. And her son went back to yeshiva from whence he cannot return, which, it turns out is only in Lakewood, and not Mozambique like she made it sound.
Anyway, this mother says that while I was studying, her son began dating someone else, and she’s not going to drag him back to NYC to date me until she’s met me herself. (I assume the new girl is in Lakewood.)
“What do I wear to date a mother?” I asked cheerfully. “Will she take me out to eat, or do I just get a bottle of water out of her? Do we go to a lounge or walk around the park?”
“You’re not going,” my mother replied firmly. She’s insulted, though she doesn’t say that. What she says is that she doesn’t understand how any woman can think she knows her son so well that she can screen his first dates for him.
“Not everyone has children like yours,” I pointed out.
I’m taking it lightly because I don’t think that’s the issue. I’m remembering this mother and how I wished she’d interview me instead of torturing my references. And I’m thinking (with reason) that this mother dug up ambiguous information during finals that she doesn’t think can be explained by anyone but me. And that she values her son’s learning or his time or maybe just the bridge toll, which is fine with me.
“He’ll be back some Shobbos soon; he can go out with you himself without wasting any time or money,” my mother insisted.
Still, to my mind, not a good reason to throw out a perfectly good guy. Possibly I’m too tolerant. I suggested the mother call me or email instead of meeting me. I’m not eager to get dressed up for her anyway.
My mother grudgingly agrees to the compromise, but adds, “It’s not like he’s the last guy on earth. There’s this other guy we’ve been pushing off because we said you were busy.”
And that was when I found out that I had a LIST. This should put me on a higher plane of existence, where everything is happy and I actually feel wanted, and I can walk proudly because I’m a single girl with dates.
If only. What is actually running through my mind is: “[sigh], another date… What will I wear?”