“People are supposed to travel with other people.”
My nana and I sitting in bumper to bumper, Friday evening, rush hour traffic on the lower level of the George Washington Bridge halfway between New York and New Jersey. We’re on the way to meet my mom for dinner. My 34th birthday dinner. In a few days, I’ll be boarding a flight to Portugal, by myself.
So, naturally, she has decided now is the time to once again collide, head on — into a conversation concerning the implications my pesky unwedded-ness has on her mental wellbeing.
I’ll give her this - it’s not as dramatic as her greatest hit “I’m only staying alive to go to your wedding” and it’s not as passive aggressive as the classic “did you hear Rita’s (not her real name) granddaughter got engaged?”
But despite my best boundary-making efforts and notes to self that I am 34-whole-years-old and therefore capable of making any and all of my own decisions — the declaration (and its subtext) sting. “People” in this scenario are, of course, me. And “other people” is the partner that – have you heard? I don’t have.
Resting just below the surface of my actual response: something along the lines of “you’re crazy” and “you realize we’re on a bridge and I’m driving, right?” there’s a part of me (a small part!!) that feels like maybe.. it’s true.
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