When it comes to mortifying me so severely as to have me entertaining thoughts of matricide, my mother is the master. My regular readers will know of her penchant for intervening in my love life, but for those new to this blog, you're in for a treat. Late last Thursday afternoon, Mum and I shared a cab home from shopping and, as is her habit, she was soon machine gunning our driver with questions about his private life. When her inquiry as to his marital status was responded to in the negative, she asked him how old he was.
'Twenty-eight,' he replied.
'Ooh! My daughter's available, and she likes 'em young!'
'How old is your daughter?'
'Forty this year,' she turned to me, 'aren't you, love?'
'Gee; you don't look forty.'
'There you go, love! Why don't you go out with him? He's interested, aren't you?'
Now, just to give everybody some perspective, I'll fill in a few details. This driver didn't help us load our groceries into the boot of the cab, despite the fact that we had two full trolley loads, as you do for two households. He was also rather cantankerous with my mother when she asked him to call another cab for an elderly lady who had been waiting over an hour. He did not strike me as a friendly or accommodating fellow and I was therefore not interested in him romantically. Fair enough, right? Well, not according to my mother.
'Well, are you gonna go out with him?'
'Oh, I actually prefer to go out with guys closer to my own age. I'm flattered though, thanks.'
'Since when do you not like younger blokes?' my mother exclaimed, 'God, you're fussy!'
The cab was silent for about sixty seconds after that and, judging by the way the driver was staring at the road ahead, I knew I had inadvertently offended him.
'Are you just not interested in Indian men?'
Anyone who knows me well enough will tell you that I don't have a discriminatory bone in my body. Not to mention the fact that my Stepfather, a man who has actually been my real father for all intents and purposes since I was seven years old, is Indian, so I can say without so much as a hint of hesitation that race was not a factor in my decision to reject the advances of the man who looked ready to turn headlong into oncoming traffic at that moment. The simple truth of the matter was, I just didn't dig him. Despite my assurances, the driver looked unconvinced as to my subscription to the Melting Pot Theory, and the cab ride was eerily silent once we dropped Mum off at her place.
But it all turned out okay in the end; my mother was later advised, in no uncertain terms that she was not my pimp and that I am perfectly capable of making my own romantic connections when I so desire, and she has promised not to interfere again. I don't think there was any real harm done as far as the driver was concerned either...anyone can accidentally take their foot of the brake and let the car roll back while someone is unloading groceries from the trunk.