Meeting the parents
2009-06-30 09:32
There comes a time, when no matter how hard you try to avoid it, you have to face one of life's certainties. Not the clichéd death and taxes spiel, but rather the grand pantomime of meeting the parents. Nothing can quite match it for forced laughter, feigned interest and awkward silences when the rugby or cricket finally comes to an end.
Being a well-seasoned "dater", I've had my fair share of meaningful handshakes, interrogations and raised eyebrows over the years, the most memorable of which occurred on a frosty winters night about seven years ago and took place without any eye-contact whatsoever.
I'd just met this girl who was studying at UCT. Her folks lived out of town - not too far - but far enough to avoid meeting them for the first few weeks. On a particularly boozy evening out I chivalrously decided it was time to go home before too much damage was done. I was house-sitting for a friend and my overnight spot was considerably closer than my then-girlfriend's - a short hop down the road as opposed to a winding trip back into the 'burbs.
By this stage of a well-liquored evening she'd already asked me, in a packed bar, if I enjoyed having my nipples squeezed, impressively lunging at me with pinched fingers before I had a chance to answer, and propositioned a passing police officer, her hands linked by imaginary handcuffs, to "take me away, take me away".
For some obscure reason I was completely sober on this particular evening - a rare occasion indeed. I assured the bemused constabulary that I was okay to drive and that his baton would not be necessary to control my new girlfriend, who by now was sprawled out on the back seat of my car, gurgling sweet-nothings at the bright starry night.
We got home and, after much cajoling and dragging of the ankles (she'd sobered up somewhat and the embarrassment was too much to bear. Either that or she really didn't want to come inside) I managed to get her into the house. Her parents, I would later find out, encouraged her to phone home on weekend nights, just to let them know that she was okay. On this evening, due to her rambling incoherence, she gave that small task a skip.
I went to bed, leaving her lying on the passage floor, where she insisted she would spend the night. A few minutes later her cellphone rang. "Dad" it said on the screen. "Do you want to answer it?" No. "Fine." Seconds later the phone rang again. Leave it. "Are you sure, just tell him you're okay." Leave it. "Sure." After five or six more rings it appeared Dad had given up. If only.
Somehow, she'd managed to give her dad the phone number of the house I was "sitting". Around four in the morning the house phone rang. I shot up in bed, thinking it could only be the owners on the line because of an emergency. I answered in my usual manner of "David, hello". Silence. Hello David, this is Tom (with surname, which I can't give away but really adds to experience because it's such a manly and imposing name when said all at once) speaking, XXXX's dad.
I was floored. I'd never met the man, but over the phone he sounded like well-starched naval officer, the kind of man with hams for fists and a bristling moustache used to intimidate cadets into submission (I was spot on when I actually met him).
"Yes. Hi Tom." Is XXXX okay? “Yes Tom. She's fine. Just a bit under the weather." Very good. Ask her to call me in the morning. "Yes Tom. Will that be all?" Make sure you're sleeping in the lounge when she wakes up. "Yes Tom, goodnight." Goodnight.
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