Mamas boy dating game
Tattooed and bespectacled, he rose a scant few inches above my five feet.
Upon meeting him, my mother had quietly confided, “He’s nice.
I suppose I just like my men more…manly.” Once the relationship had dragged on for three miserable years, she blatantly told me she thought he was gay.
I tried to laugh it off, wondering how a woman who hadn’t dated since the Clinton administration could think she had the right to give me relationship advice.
Never mind that her last serious crush was on the moving man who’d hoisted her furniture into her new house a decade before the diagnosis. The tall, balding orthopedist who tried his best to court her as the divorce drew itself out a decade ago was a no-show.
“Steve was so…strong,” she sighed, and her eyes would go as glassy as a teenager’s in front of a cardboard cutout of a Jonas Brother. Even the 6'5" truck-driving construction man who paved our neighbor’s driveway, and who brought her flowers every evening only to be turned away after the clock struck nine, didn’t stop by to pay his last respects.
However, in place of my professional achievements, I inserted euphemisms and insinuations of what I was really on the market for.
Instead, I deleted the Italian stallion’s number and updated my online dating profiles.
I kicked him out of my apartment and cautiously started to date.