This Is Not a Love Story: {Waiting,} Against Your Mom’s Wishes

In an unmemorable restaurant, at an unmemorable time, my unforgettable mom finally cracked.

We were about to leave when she offered, “I think you are setting your standards a bit too high.” Or it was something like that. She may have asked me if I agreed with that suggestion.

Now I don’t think anyone in the world, including myself, wants better for me than my mom does, and did that day. Regardless, it was hard to hear. I can’t imagine how hard it was to say.

As a kid, I didn’t receive a lot of macro-level criticism from my parents. It was more micro-level offenses like putting away my Micro Machines, fixing hospital corners, and not wearing grey sweatshirts with khaki pants.

Her “suggestion” didn’t feel like a deep personal critique. It also wasn’t an “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed,” nor was it a challenge. I don’t know what exactly my mom meant for it to be. Either way, it stung.

In me, she didn’t see a son who was un-spectacularly adequate in relationships. She saw a son whose friends were getting married or at least bringing their girlfriends home for Thanksgiving. She was small town gossipping with moms whose kids reported back each date with the tenacity of a Boy Scout reciting his good deeds to earn merit badges.

My parents met some of my girlfriends but not others. They knew that some girlfriends existed, but to my parents, there was no more evidence of these women than there was of your sixth grade girlfriend who was a model in Canada.

The funny thing is that I had already met my wife, I just didn’t know it. And while I respect the hell out of the mystical powers of moms, I don’t think she knew it either. Because at that point, my wife was only a friend of a friend. Someone I casually saw around. Someone who lived a couple blocks away. Someone I was shooting hoops with.

Maybe mom’s pep talk allowed me to start seeing things differently, or maybe all of those too high standards were actually at the exact right height for the exact right time. In the end, finding the perfect partner is more about the why than the when.

But remember, this is not a love story, so much as a cautionary tale because grapes don’t ripen off the vine. Sometimes when you wait, good things happen.

Like how eventually there was an exchanging of phone numbers. Then a clumsily worded, nervous-as-hell text to get dinner. Something like “and I wouldn’t mind if it was kinda like a date.” There was that first date that was awkward and bumbling, like real first dates are. The ambiguity as the image of a friendship slowly and continually refocused its blurry lines.

But there was always lots and lots of laughing. At some point, introductions to friends, and then to family (a big hit with mom! Though if you ever want a good first meeting, plan it around brunch. Everyone is 73 percent friendlier at brunch). Vacations. There were two sets of keys, then just one. Eventually a ring. And a date. And a dance floor. And a honeymoon. And now our life.

I didn’t meet my wife until I was 26. I didn’t know she would be my wife until I was 29. I didn’t get married until I was 31. All because I had perfectly high standards and patience. Don’t rush it; whenever you meet the right partner, it will be worth the wait.