“His boss is pursuing him, and he needs an out. I’m his beard.”
“Is he gay?” she wants to know. “Because if so, he should just tell her that. She’d have to understand.”
“Thomas is not gay,” I assure her. An image of him as a bronzed construction worker pops into my head and I feel my temperature rise. “He is very, very,notgay.”
“You like him,” my mom speculates.
I don’t see any reason to lie to her. “I think he’s amazing. He’s funny, handsome, personable …”
“What’s the problem then? Saddle up that stallion and go for a ride!”
She can’t possibly mean that the way it sounds. “The problem is that I’m not sure how he perceives me.”
“What do you mean, ‘how he perceives’ you?”
“I mean, does he think I’m weird? Does he feel sorry for me? Does he see me as a woman or you know, just a friend?” I hate that I’m regressing into my insecurities, but I like Thomas enough that I can’t help but worry.
I hear my mom humming lowly in the background, so I ask, “Are you even listening to me?”
She practically whispers her response. “I was just singing to Bernie and she fell asleep.”
“The chicken fell asleep in a sink full of water?” Something like this could only happen to my mother.
“She probably thinks she’s at a spa,” she croons in a sing-songy voice.
I don’t even know how to respond to that, so I repeat, “How do I know how Thomas perceives me? And before you suggest I come right out and ask him, I’m not going to do that. I’d send him running for sure if I were that forward.”
“Then spend time with him and see what happens. Men really aren’t that complicated, dear. They’re very simple creatures with very simple motivations.”
“What are those motivations?” Because as obvious as she thinks they are, I don’t exactly speak the same language.
My mom snorts, “To get you in the sack, Finny. That’s pretty much all that’s going on in their heads for the first few years of being in a relationship.” I’m not about to ask if that’s how it was with my dad because …ew.
When I don’t respond to her immediately, she asks, “Have I answered your questions?”
“Yes?” But like always with my mom, I feel more confused now than when we started talking.
“Is that a yes with a question mark or a period?”
Instead of answering, I ask, “Did you ever wish I was like other kids? You know, did you feel bad that I didn’t fit in?”
“God, no. Children are annoying by nature. I’ve never been annoyed by you, dear.”
My eyes tear up for multiple reasons. The first being that if I had to be born special, thank goodness I had parents who were equipped to handle it. The other being a bit of sadness that I was probably the cause of much parental concern.
I’ve grown to truly like who I am, but being different can mean being misunderstood and often ostracized. People want to be around those they find predictable. Which is something I am not.
“I love you, Mom,” I say into the phone. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Honey, you sound like you’re getting ready to jump off the roof of a skyscraper. You’re not depressed, are you?”
“No. I’m just a little melancholy.”Another turn of the last century word my mother loves.“It’s been a long time since I’ve liked a man the way I think I might like Thomas and it’s scaring me.”
“Don’t obsess about it too much, Finny. Just let things happen. Life is a ride and the more you think about it, the less you enjoy it.”
“I threw up on the tilt-oh-whirl at the county fair,” I remind her.
She snorts. “Life can be nauseating, but also a lot of fun. Have fun, Finny. You’re not as different from everyone else as you think.” Says the woman who’s probably even spicier than I am. Although, I still appreciate her advice.
