Nosy nuisances back off
A MAN I hardly know came up to me the other night and asked to sit down
I had no say because he sat anyway, pulling up a chair to my restaurant table and, bypassing any pleasantries, he launched into an interrogation of the most intimate nature.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” he began.
There was no time to be put out before he kindly elaborated: “Why are you single? You’re not a bad sort, so obviously you must be doing something wrong.”
And he proceeded to offer me a long list of possibilities, options and single men that might haul me out of this sorry state into which I have apparently fallen.
“Betchya get plenty of offers, but you’re just too fussy. That’s your problem. Thinking too much about it. You better watch it or you’ll miss out.”
It wasn’t so much this unsolicited cross-examination that had my jaw on the ground but that this man clearly thought he was doing me a favour, performing a charitable act of community service by doing his bit for the unattached.
It doesn’t work both ways because were I to ask him if he was, say, happy in his marriage after seven years and three children or whether he has regrets or pines for another, I dare say he would’ve upped and left with great indignance (Hmm, perhaps I should’ve given it a shot).
But being single makes you fair game. Without love, you are public property.
Such as my single friend who rang me dejected. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Too much time with couples,” she sighed. She’d just come from dinner with married friends who’d staged a spontaneous intervention.
“Out of nowhere the wife goes, ‘Why can’t you get a bloke? I just don’t get it. Perhaps you’re a nightmare of a girlfriend.’
“Then – get this – she suggests that maybe I’m no good in the cot! And then the husband offers to go on my next date with me to point out what I’m doing wrong.”
How chivalrous.
It’s not until you’re married that prying seems to be ruled out of bounds.
There’s a secret marriage vow along the lines of, “Will you honour and obey the confines of confidentiality except where everyone else is concerned from this day forward?’
“I will.”
But pre-nuptial, nothing is sacred.
Not even having a boyfriend is a buffer to the unwarranted advances of others.
“How are you two getting along?” they’ll ask without hesitation.
“Has he used the L word? How often does he sleep over?”
And even – as one friend newly in love will attest – “Is he well-hung?”
Could you imagine the furore if you asked the same of their husbands.
Is it that being wed – and hence successful – they think deems them worthy to offer sage advice?
Or are they simply living vicariously, titillated by our goings-on, disguising it as deep concern?
Worse, does it make them feel better about themselves when sized up against our perceived shortcomings?
Like the ones who pop their arm around you and say, “Don’t worry, one day you’ll have what I have” when what they have is a husband who has a penchant for lap dancers.
Beware the Pity Police distinct for their failure to see that perhaps – believe it or not – you’re happy just as you are.
But it’s tough in the face of such bombarding disapproval not to wonder if there’s indeed something amiss. Just as I did, I admit, with the imposter at my table.
“What about the priest?’ he went on, referring to a friend of mine.
“He’s a priest!” I pointed out.
“Sure, but he must have some friends he could introduce you to.”
Now I know how pregnant women must feel when complete strangers place their hands on their bellies.