It was Valentines Day last week.
Except – it wasn’t just Valentines Day. It was also my six-year anniversary with Mr Maybe, my (long suffering) boyfriend.
“Who has their first date on Valentines Day?” You might ask.
Well, we did. If only to ensure that if it all worked out we would both remember exactly when Kismet first struck.
Anyway – Saturday is the very first time Mr Maybe will be meeting my father. This is mainly due to conflicting schedules, geographic undesirability and the fact that my father is in possession of firearms.
It should be an interesting experience. We will be driving to the countryside for almost two hours while I rattle off a list of things he can / can’t mention under any circumstances. Then, after checking in to a cute little B&B, intend to spend the remainder of our free time locked in a panic-stricken guided tour of my childhood / teens. A tour punctuated by me waving my hand vaguely at old haunts while driving past them at breakneck speed before any pressing questions can bubble to the surface.
Questions like: “Wait, you worked there?” or “You used to do what at the weekends?”
I swear, if I smoked I would be frantically igniting and inhaling one death-stick after the other from the sheer stress and terror of the impending situation.
It might sound bizarre that we are doing the ‘getting to know you’ / ‘meet the parents’ / ‘trip down memory lane’ thing after six years, but a whole kaleidoscope of planets needed to be in alignment to make such an introduction work. Everyone needed to be in the country at the same time and fully available, hotels needed to be booked, cars needed to be rented, participants needed to be in good health and not stricken by the latest ‘trendy’ virus… And the more the years ticked by the more of a weird elephant in the room it became. Happily it has made this particular anniversary milestone all the more special and will undeniably be seared into both of our brains for better or for worse.
Besides, he has already met Mothership (on many occasions) who has given him a once over and soundly kicked the “boyfriend” tires for good measure. Which I think is the general best-hoped-for seal of approval for any boyfriend of a youngest child. Even at 32. And once you have the nod of approval from the matriarch, its plain sailing – right?
So… maybe it isn’t all going to go to hell in a hand cart?
Lets hope so.