Meet the Parents

Since Abraham's parents learned that he met both my mother and my father, they planned an impromptu road trip that just happens to go through the city. Coincidentally. And since they just so happen to be in the area, they thought they would stop by, you know, for the weekend. And maybe Abraham could bring me around?

Mmmhmmm.

"They must really want to meet me," I responded when Abraham relayed the story to me.

"You think?" he said sarcastically.

I wore my current favorite good-girl outfit: a yellow flowy top that was bestowed upon me from South Carolina Bestie, skinny blue jeans that are cropped just below the knee and black ballet flats. I put diamonds in my ears for good measure.

I alerted Abraham when I arrived at his house. He met me outside.

"You ready?" he asked.

Abraham had it easier than me. When he met my parents, he met them one at a time. Then he only had to smile for two hours and be done with it. This, this was an entire weekend of good behavior.

They greeted me with welcoming hugs. Abraham looks like his father. Anxious smiles all around.

We then headed to a local Mexican restaurant. Abraham quickly ordered a pitcher of margaritas for the table. The good ones. I felt sweet relief at the sight of tequila.

The conversation was very official, very Welcome to the Family. They compared meeting me to meeting their son-in-law. They commented on how nervous he was.

"We've been married for over 40 years," his father began. "And I do know how much easier being the same religion is on the relationship."

I knew my Christian Southern Belle status was an obstacle for these New York Jews. I just didn't think it would come up at the first meeting.

"I just want my son to be happy," interjected his mother.

"You do know that for children to be Jewish, the mother has to be Jewish?" the father continued.

I nodded wide eyed. I knew. It was the first thing anybody has ever told me when I said I was dating a Jew. If I got struck on the head and had amnesia, I'd remember that the mother has to be Jewish.

I'll be honest: I didn't like the pressure I felt. I was grateful that Abraham and I have already had this conversation, and we'd already decided on a solution that works for both of us. I was so glad I already knew the answer to the question that his father was asking. It relieved some of the pressure I felt.

But I never gave him an answer. I haven't even told my parents what we decided to do. I didn't want to tell this man something that I felt was so personal on the first meeting.

Abraham grabbed my hand under the table. I laced my fingers in the comfort of his. In the beginning of the relationship, he'd always whine when I reached for his hand. Now it's second nature to him to reach for mine.

His mom gasped.

"Look!" she said to her husband. She moved the pitcher of margaritas out of the way and pointed to our shoulders. "They're holding hands!" She was positively giddy.

Abraham had told me that he felt pressure to marry a nice, Jewish girl growing up, but this dissipated somewhere around 30. By 35, he was told they just wanted him to be happy.

He was. I am. We are.

The Best Time I Got Fat

It happened all at once, yet not at all.

I got fat.

Fat to me is about 10 pounds. I know exactly how I got this way. Abraham joked that instead of doing the Couch to 5k, I did the 5k to Couch. It's been a year since I ran my last race, months since my last run. Abraham couldn't keep up with me, complaining of a hurt knee, and my geriatric dog just wanted to smell the river. So after 2 miles, we packed up and went home. Forever. 

Our nights were spent together with beers in our hands, at local bars, at concerts, at hockey and baseball games. Because our nights are spent together, I stopped buying perishable food. Perishable food! Also known as real food! Fruits and vegetables and cheese and meat! I switched from skim milk to organic soy milk, just because it lasts longer. When I did go to the grocery store, I loaded up on eggs, canned tuna and ramen noodles.

Abraham wasn't any better behaved. His house has dog biscuits, leftover matzo from Passover and a few canned goods. He keeps a jar of dark chocolate peanut m&ms on his nightstand because he knows I love them. He has no milk product, soy or otherwise.

The excuse is we're busy. Work. Kickball two nights a week. Parties. Friend invites. Sunday Funday. I can't remember the last time we've had a night in. Eating has efficiently become a social activity.

But my pants still fit, so it kept me in denial. How fat can you really be if you're wearing the same pair of pants?

Abraham and I have been invited to four weddings in six weeks. Last week I pulled out my beautiful dresses from last summer and laid them on my bed. Which to choose to wear? It quickly became evident. I would wear the dress that zips. Only none of them did. I'd get them all the way up to my breast and they wouldn't budge.

I got fat. There is certainly shame in no longer being able to fit in your clothes. I panicked. I called South Carolina Bestie and asked her how many tears would I have to cry to burn enough calories to fit in my dress. Turns out it was more than I had. I tried a corset with my dresses. Nada. I was just fat.

I called Abraham next. I told him my predicament. He heard my sniffles.

"Are you crying?" he asked.

"No."

"Are you lying?" he asked.

"Yes."

His voice got soft. He assured me I wasn't fat. I remembered what The Leader once told me, "If a guy really liked you, 10 – 15 pounds wouldn't make a difference." The Leader was right.

I told Abraham I wanted to start running again. He agreed. I said I needed to buy a fat girl dress this weekend for the first wedding.

"Anything you want."

I asked his roommate for dieting tips, knowing she was also in the midst of losing weight. "My boyfriend is responsible for 4 – 6 pounds," she told me. "It's a nice trade off though, isn't it?"

That's what everyone tells me when I say I got fat. They've been called "happy pounds" or "relationship pounds." But the way she phrased it—as a trade off—it soothed me.

"I'd rather be happy than skinny," I said.

"Me too."

The next day I dejectedly walked into Abraham's house after work. He stopped what he was doing and rushed across the room to greet me. He held me so tight. "You're not fat," he said. "I'm sorry you were upset last night and I couldn't be there for you. I love you."

It is a nice trade off.

We have since run 6 miles. We're starting back at the beginning of Couch to 5k, and he signed us up for a 5k in September. He told me he was proud of my running and my drive.

"Do you think I'll lose the weight?"

"And then some."

"What if I don't lose the weight? What if I look like this forever?"

"Then I'll still love you."

Where are they now?

Mark

Light Facebook stalking years ago revealed that he is married. She's not as pretty as me. Talk about wasted tears. At least I got a blog out of it.

Conor

Conor sent me a text back in April late one night. He told me he inherited a lot of money and was now independently wealthy but didn't want to tell anyone. He fished around as to whether I had a boyfriend. When I said I did, he stopped responding. He's had the same girlfriend for about 3 years.

Adam

Facebook had the last laugh.

Jack

Jack contacted me once via LinkedIn. Unfortunately I was in a really horrible place, so I sent him a weird response (i.e. "I'm good! I followed your advice, but I got laid off! And now I have cancer!"). Naturally he never responded. Nor did he follow through on any of my LinkedIn connections for a job. I have since deleted him from LinkedIn.

The Musician

Abraham and I went to go see his band last week. On the way there I was like, "Uh, so you should know that five years ago I went on two dates with one of the band mates."

I couldn't tell if Abraham was jealous or not. I thought he may have been since he told our entire party, including people I've never met, that I went out with the Musician. But on the other hand, the band seemed a little sadder this time. Five years ago the band mates were in their twenties. Now they're in their thirties, still working their day jobs as servers and still playing the same songs at the same venues. Five years later and they are no more popular. Nothing has changed for them except for their receding hair lines.

I don't know if The Musician recognized me or not. I've changed a lot since then.

S

Several months ago S' step-mom phoned me. S was back in jail.

"When was he in jail?" I asked.

Apparently he was sentenced to several months in jail for beating up yet another girlfriend. And he was being ordered back in for violating his probation and appearing in front of the judge drunk.

Christopher

Christopher. I don't know if he sold his email address or joined some marketing strategy, but I started getting those horrible, spammy emails from his address. The ones with a single link to Canadian Viagra.

I reported that his email address was hacked. I still got the emails. I sent him three emails kindly telling him to change his password. I still got the emails. So then I blocked him.

Valentine's Day he sent me a friend request on Facebook. I had deleted him after I dumped him years ago. I accepted and now he stalks from afar. LinkedIn reported a few months ago that he is now living in Illinois, so y'all are on notice.

Valdosta

I never heard from him since the night he dumped me. I've never looked him up. I don't want to know anything because I don't want to be sad. He will have to remain a mystery.

The Hungarian 

The Hungarian tried to have sex with me on our last date. I turned him down cold. I never heard from him again. Funny thing, it took me about 2 months to realize it.

Clemson

No one has seen or heard from him in about a year. I've been tempted to send him a text to make sure he is alive, but it's not my place.

Statham

Statham now lives with the ex-girlfriend, who is no longer an ex. They came out to Abraham's tailgate about a month ago and we were all drinking together. She didn't speak to me, but Statham was his usual friendly self to Abraham and me. Everybody acted like nothing ever happened.

Easy

Someone made a joke Saturday night and I'm 99.8% sure the joke was aimed at Abraham and not at me. But still it hit a sensitive topic: our beginning. Our beginning in which he was slow moving and I was inexplicably patient.

Two or three frozen margaritas and a gin and tonic later and we're laying in his bed, away from the person who made the joke.

"Did I pressure you to be with me?" I asked.

"What?"

I adjusted myself in his sheets. The lights of his room were still on. "Did I pressure you? Because I flirted with you at the bar, and I made myself available to you, and I was here when you weren't sure."

"I'm a grown man who can make my own decisions," he said simply.

Free will. Oh yeah. Right. I didn't really consider that. I acted as if I had some super power that I had cast over him, absolving him from accountability.

The answer had satisfied me for the most part, but I still protested in circles.

"I love you. And you are overthinking things," he tried again. "Things are easy between us. It doesn't have to be complicated."

It's what I needed to hear to snap me out of it. He said the word "easy." It's the one thing so ingrained in me that I have to work hard to overcome it. I'm not used to easy. I don't trust easy. In my life, love never came easy.

We don't fight, a normal occurrence in healthy relationships, and I question it.

If it's easy, it isn't real.

"My father left when I was really little," I admitted quietly. It was the first time I spoke of any kind of fear. "What if you change your mind?"

Abraham sighed. "There are no guarantees. But I have no intention of changing my mind. I don't know what happened to you to make you doubt easy—and I'm sorry those things happened to you—but I love you and I'm here."

As he said this I burst into tears and cried in a way he hasn't seen me cry. I've usually gotten away with the one tear that folds over the lashes and silently slips down the cheek, but this, this was the ugly cry. My face crumpled into itself like Popeye.

Because he's right. He doesn't know. He doesn't know about S, but he knows something had happened that causes me to feel timid and unsure at times. Something happened that makes me think about things really carefully so I don't choose the same decisions I've made in the past.

To be honest, I don't trust him with that information. People who have healthy relationships their entire lives can't imagine the horrors of unhealthy ones, specifically why good people tolerate them. I don't want to have to explain to him my role in an unhealthy relationship. How years ago, I wasn't ready for Abraham.

But what I heard him say to me was that it was okay. Maybe the specifics aren't needed. It doesn't affect my day-to-day life, instead flaring like a flash in the pan. The tears were gone as quickly as they came.

"Does it matter how I got to you? How twisty the road was to you?

"No."

I believe him. It will be okay.

Like a Glove

The days since the great unveiling of feelings have been easy. We're not saying those little three words frequently—it still feels a bit scary and overwhelming—but love is all around us.

Abraham: "Can you get me a refill while you're up, my love?"

Me: (After being teased) I think you've gotten too comfortable.
Abraham: That's what love does to me. Love makes me lazy and comfortable.

Me: (Kidding) You are expensive, boyfriend.
Abraham: My love is cheap.
Me: And easy. Heyo!
Abraham: Truth.

I guess we're trying love on for size. It's fitting.

The Dog Fork

"I don't know what to get my father for Father's Day," I said lazily while lying on top of Abraham's bed. Kickball would start within the hour, and we were spending a few minutes spooning after work but before the game.

"I thought I was his Father's Day gift," he responded innocently.

I obediently go to my father's house every year for the day. This time my father said more than once that Abraham was invited. It sounded less like a request and more like, "It's time, Sarah." Because Abraham met my mother two weeks prior, he may as well get it all over with.

I kissed Abraham for his sweet remark. "Happy Father's Day, dad. You never have to move me from apartment to apartment again."

"Uh, wait a minute. There are movers for that," he sulked.

***

There seemed to be a contest between my parents over who knew the most about Abraham. Hands down the winner is my mother, who hears about the routine day-to-day stuff and has picked up on the amount of time we spend together.

My father told my mother that he was meeting Abraham.

"He's nice. You'll have a good time," my mother said smugly.

"You met him?"

"A couple of weeks ago."

My father was quiet. I think he was hurt.

***

Abraham wasn't as nervous meeting my father as he was my mother. Maybe it's because he knows I talk to my mom multiple times a day and I talk to my father once every couple of weeks. Maybe it's because he already has one parent under his belt. Maybe it's because when he asked which beer to buy to gift my father, I told him he prefers cheap stuff.

As we got out of the car, I heard my step-mother call excitedly, "They're here!"

I opened the back seat and the Femme Fatale hopped out and joined her doggy pals in the backyard. My father was in the swimming pool. It's difficult to be nervous when you're shaking hands with someone who is wet and shirtless. He also speaks in a thick Pennsylvania Dutch accent, a product of his upbringing. "Water" sounds like "wart." "Garage" sounds like "crotch." Abraham immediately picked up on some of the words I say, mainly the funny sounding ones. "Nudge" to mean a person who is an annoyance and "schtauby" to mean "drunk."

My father immediately got us beer and coozies. We sat around one of the patio tables, and they regaled us about the party they had yesterday with all of my step-siblings. They asked Abraham simple questions that they didn't already know: what he did, how long he worked there, where he lived, etc. Abraham provided the exact opposite answer S would have given for every question. Abraham is sure-footed and stable. I hope my parents noticed the difference.

As the sun heated our skin, we too changed for the pool. The Femme Fatale was already standing in a large fountain, which she prefers to the swimming pool. She walked circles around the bottom tier and drank as she cooled off.

I had a brand new float I bought for the summer. It's a raft that holds cups for beer pong, so you can play in the swimming pool. Abraham and I inflated the float and played as my father and step-mother watched, bewildered at the game.

They brought out the leftovers from the party the night before: ribs.

"Is this pork?" I asked my step-mother.

"Yes. And this is chicken," she said, pointing to the other barbequed meat.

I never thought eating kosher would be a big deal. I don't even consider myself a big pork eater, but it seems to be everywhere when you're trying to avoid it. I took the pork ribs so there would be enough chicken left for Abraham to eat. I didn't know which way my parents would go. My father took the pork. My step-mom took the chicken.

We sat at the outside dining table near the Femme Fatale and her fountain. I ate half my ribs before I cut up the rest and called her over. She sat obediently as I fed her the pork.

"I can't believe you're using your fork," my father said, less than pleased.

For the record, it was a plastic fork and paper plate. We were not high dining like we had at my mother's. The Femme Fatale gingerly accepted each cut of meat off the plastic fork.

"See? She's good with a fork, and I don't have to get dog saliva on me."

"That only leads me to believe you've done this before," he said dryly.

We finished eating. I became aware of all the summer mosquitos stinging my legs.

"Rub a dryer sheet on your skin," my step-mom advised. "It'll coat you, and you'll smell like Downey."

I went inside to try her home remedy (which worked, by the way). I brought a pie out with me to the table and cut a slice for everyone.

Halfway into my pie Abraham said quietly, "Is that the dog fork?"

It was. I forgot about it when I got stung so badly and went inside for relief. I was eating the pie with the dog fork. I solemnly put the dog fork down and picked up a new one. The table erupted in laughter.

"I really had a good time," Abraham said in the car.

"Why?"

"It was more relaxed than your mother's."

"Well, she's proper."

"I know."

"She doesn't say 'poop' you know. Or 'crap.'"

What does she say?" he asked, amused.

"Jobee. She'd call me and yell that the dog left a jobee on the carpet."

He snickered. I joined him. I have a feeling that 'jobee' may also be Pennsylvania Dutch, but the customs in which my Yankee parents grew up is so far removed from my Southern upbringing.

"She says 'heinie' instead of 'butt.'" I added for good measure.

"So 'heinie' and 'jobee?'"

"Yup."

"That's worse than the dog fork."

I Love You

"I love you."

This wasn't how I planned it.

I had planned it so that we would be away at the beach for the weekend. It would be our first solo weekend away. And I would take him to the dock at night to look at the stars, and I would turn around and face him and tell him that I love him. He would, of course, tell me he loved me back and we would kiss passionately.

But then I began thinking. Although stargazing is fantastic at the beach house, the reason that it's so great is because it's so dark out. As in, I wouldn't be able to see his face. I could shine a flashlight at him, but, well, that feels like an interrogation.

We had just finished having dinner at one of my favorite restaurants on the water. Abe had burned himself on the jalapeno poppers. We were unwashed for dinner because the electricity was out on the island. Someone reported a tree hit a power line, and we had been without air conditioning and me without a flat iron. So we sat on the dock in our sticky sweat and watched the sun set. The Femme Fatale had barfed about 10 minutes ago. The second time that day.

The sunset was beautiful. Orange and pink had taken over the sky as the sun disappeared behind a neighboring island. It was now dusk. Pinks turned into purples turned into the navy blue of night.

I could do it now, I thought. It's what I came here to do, and I can still see him.

"I love you."

Abraham gasped in surprise. "You said it."

"I did."

He leaned forward and spoke very clinically, very logically. "What have to have a short chat."

Oh no.

"I've never said those words to a girl. How do you know if you love someone?"

I didn't have an answer. As of the retelling, I have all sorts of funny, quip-py responses, but in the moment I was dumbstruck. I was in an extremely vulnerable place emotionally, and I did not expect to have to explain myself.

"Because I think it to myself about 20 times a day."

"That you love yourself?"

"No, that I love you," I shrugged.

He kissed my forehead in response. The dog howled. "You're ruining our moment," he told her.

"I wish I could explain it better, but it's just something that I know. It's a blind faith."

"Then I probably love you too."

"Have you not thought about it?" I asked.

"Not really."

I looked away in embarrassment. Maybe I made up the Morse code and saw what I wanted in it. Maybe I projected my feelings onto him.

Abraham corrected himself. "No, I knew this was coming."

It took Abraham about three minutes to go through the stages of acceptance.

"If I was a betting man, I would say yes," he added a minute later.

Then he lifted a finger to my cheek and titled my head toward him. "I love you too."

I had been listening to him search himself for the last few minutes. Until the final "I love you too," he had been speaking mostly to himself, or at least as if I hadn't been there.

"You don't have to say it back if you're not ready."

"No, I know you. I know that would kill you."

I looked over his shoulder and gasped. "Abraham, look!"

Behind us shone the lights from the backs of the houses. Power had been restored after a 5-hour blackout.

"I'm going to take that as a sign." He stood up and pulled me with him and kissed me. "You're my first love," he said.

He loves me.