I laugh. That’s Kath for you; everything is an article. She’s probably already working out what GIFs I should use to accompany my words.
As the buzz from Polly’s announcement dies down, and everyone gets back to their work, we resume our conversation.
‘God, that’s not an engagement ring, that’s a deposit on a house,’ she jokes, admiring my bling. ‘Hey, maybe Mark will finally introduce you to his parents,’ she adds cheekily.
‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ I say, nervously. ‘I was on top of the world when he asked me; then, as soon as he mentioned me meeting them, I freaked out.’
‘Just be on your best behaviour,’ Polly reminds me. ‘If you have a “best behaviour”,’ she adds with a giggle.
I widen my eyes with horror. My friend doesn’t take this as her cue to go easy on me; instead she persists with her teasing.
‘Maybe he hasn’t let you meet them because he’s worried they won’t like you. So it’s just safer to keep you from them. Except, now he’s popped the question, it’s forced his hand.’
Mark is not purposefully keeping me from his family, but it is true that I haven’t met any of them yet. His family all live in the middle of nowhere, in the Yorkshire Dales. He’s been to visit them a few times while I’ve known him but at first it was too early in our relationship, and then, when he did start inviting me, I wasn’t able to get the time off work. He hasn’t been to visit them since, but they do know I exist, so that’s encouraging.
‘Oh, my God, stop, have mercy. I’m already freaking out as it is,’ I remind her.
‘Do you know much about them?’ Polly enquires.
‘Erm, not really,’ I tell her, honestly. ‘I know that they live kind of out of the way of civilisation – and from what Mark has told me about their house, it sounds amazing. It’s just his mum and dad living there now, but he has two sisters, one older and one younger. I know their names and stuff, but not really much about them. I’ve seen the occasional photo of his siblings on Facebook, but his parents don’t use it.’
‘That’s weird, I think,’ Polly says, pondering the issue.
‘It is and it isn’t,’ I laugh. ‘I suppose almost everyone is on there now, so it seems weird when people don’t use it, but it’s probably not that weird…’
‘Well, I think it’s weird,’ she laughs. ‘Like they’re dinosaurs who haven’t embraced modern technology.’
‘Maybe,’ I laugh.
I am of the generation where we rely too heavily on being able to cyber-stalk people we’ve just met, or are yet to meet, to try and figure out what kind of personality they have. It sure would make my life easier if I knew what his parents were like – what kind of people they were, how they dressed, what their interests were. You can tell a lot about a person from stuff like that.
I am what my mum sometimes describes as an ‘acquired taste’. I am the very definition of a millennial – although that might have a lot to do with my job, too. Sometimes my parents think I’m speaking a second language – because they don’t know their YOLO from their FOMO – and my passion for fashion often leaves them scratching their heads. But I think it’s important to be current, and move with the times. Take my hair, for example. In the summer I had it longer and lighter, but now that we’re in December, in the midst of winter, I’ve opted for a honey-coloured lob – because that’s what is in fashion right now. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with wanting to be cool, even if people don’t really get it, but it would be nice to get a heads-up on whether or not his parents are more on the conservative side of the spectrum, because even though I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not, I do really want to impress them. I care what they think, but only because I love Mark so much, and I want his family to see that and want me to be a part of their family because they like me, not just because I’m marrying into it. You hear all these stories and watch all these movies about evil in-laws, but that’s not the reality, is it? Mums who think no woman is good enough for their son – that’s just a clichéd character.
Still, it’s not like I have to worry about that right now, is it? I only got engaged yesterday. As fast as we’ve been flying through the motions so far, I’m just taking this engagement a day at a time.
I think to myself for a moment. That’s it! The idea for my next article: ‘10 Things to Consider Before You Meet Your Boyfriend’s Parents for the First Time’.
What is the quickest way to get back in a man’s good books? I know the fastest way to a man’s heart is via his stomach, but I’ll bet the quickest way to his good books is via his pants. To make sure I have all bases covered, my plan of attack involves both. You see, my article went live this afternoon, and judging by the number of times it’s been shared already, and the number of comments it’s had on Facebook, it’s only a matter of time before Mark sees it. You know what they say: it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission – that’s my strategy with Mark because, if I told him what I was planning on writing, I don’t think he’d be down for it, but once I’ve finished the article and it’s live, he always tells me what a great job I did.
Mark has never once been mad at me for writing about our relationship, and yet I always have this little mini panic between hitting the ‘publish’ button and him reading it and telling me that he still loves me, even though I share our most personal relationship details (arguments, sexual malfunctions, etc.) with everyone who has an internet connection. This article is a little different, though, because I’ve been messing with him for weeks, testing him, and that does sometimes feel just a little dishonest, even if it is all in the name of journalism. That’s why I stopped at Ann Summers on my way home and bought myself the most alarmingly intimidating set of underwear I could find, in an attempt to disarm and confuse him, so that by the time I’m done with him, and I tell him what my latest article is about, he’ll be too happy and tired to care.
I walk up to my full-length mirror to admire my new underwear, but for some reason it doesn’t compliment my body quite as well as it did the mannequin in the window. I imagine that’s because she was made of hard plastic, whereas my normal, slightly squishy body is harder to contain with all these peepholes. Trying to wrangle my natural boobs in this cupless bra is proving more difficult than I thought it would, but if I make sure I’m lying down when Mark gets home, he won’t notice the fighting battle I’m losing with gravity. It doesn’t matter than I’m only twenty-nine years old; real boobs are a law unto themselves.
That’s the plan of attack on his boxers sorted; now all I need to do is dash to the kitchen and grab a can of whipped cream so I can carefully apply it to my body and then wait on the bed for him to come home and devour me.
I open the fridge and glance around a few times, but I can’t find the whipped cream anywhere. I only bought it last week, and I know I haven’t used it. Dammit, what can I use instead? So long as it’s something I can spread on my body that Mark loves the taste of, it’ll be fine, right?
Hmm, somehow I don’t think a tub of Philadelphia is the best option, even if it is Mark’s favourite kind of cheese. Ditto that jar of passata. Spying another jar on the shelf, I grab it, reading the nutritional information, as though that has some baring on whether or not I’m going to smother it
