I recently had the pleasure of lunching with the grandparents of a very close friend of mine. I have met these folks before, the last many Thanksgivings, having the requisite conversations before I get too drunk on wine and turkey and chocolate cake to speak with anyone. Not that we had much to talk about before all of this happens.
Last week in New Jersey, of course they live in a retirement community in New Jersey, Steven and I sat down for some awkward cold cuts (whose grandparents, who complain that Steven’s girlfriend isn’t Jewish, serve ham? Bad sign number two, behind New Jersey) and I am forced to deflect questions about “my future”. What did I study? What am I going to do with it, “career-wise”? I do my best to explain the next year or so of my life which will not be “career-oriented”, and compliment Florence on the cole slaw.
A few days later, Steven gives me the full debrief on our visit. The grandparents had spoken with Steven’s father, told him how nice it was to see Steven, how tragic it is that he is always going off somewhere and not spending more time with them, how “interesting” his art is, that they have hopes for his “career”, and how Florence is not worried about my lack of professional direction as, drum roll please, I will just “be somebody’s wife“.
Steven told me this as we were strolling by the Congressional office buildings and I had to sit down on the ledge to take it all in. The gasps and screeches of laughter only added to our novelty on the block. “Who says that?” I asked rhetorically. Florence. In Florence’s world, this is my option, my destiny.
Any takers?
I’m not quite over this yet. More to come on wifery.
