An incident recently reminded me of the first time I met my In-Laws, about seven-eight years ago.
I was understandably nervous. I really REALLY wanted Husband’s family to like me. Correction: I wanted to leave them in no doubt as to why Husband was completely besotted with me, and even experience a little of that lovin feelin themselves, although preferably platonically and largely internally.
Husband granted me maximum exposure to his family. We stayed overnight with his grandparents, Thursa and Eric, on the way to Te Anau; then spent three weeks with Agent of Death and Her Goatiness. I wasn’t sure I achieved full lovin feelin (see above), but I thought I passed. Maybe I tried a bit too hard. No harm in that.
A month after we returned to Dubai, Husband called me from work.
“There’s a parcel here for you,” he said. “Looks like it’s from my mother.”
“For me?” I said. “Oh no, I don’t think so. It must be for you.”
“No, it’s got your name on it.”
I was overwhelmed. WOW! I thought. I must have made a GREAT impression! She must really like me! Although: sending gifts to your son’s girlfriend? Hmm, was that a bit desperate and possibly hinting of codependency? I’d have to watch out for her.
At the same time, I was intrigued. When Husband arrived home, I charged him as he walked in the door and seized the package. It was small and yielded when I squeezed it. It could have been wrapped more elegantly, but I wouldn’t hold it against the woman. A gift is a gift.
I shredded off the tape and paper. It was a pair of knickers. I was confounded. I mean, they were nice knickers – Calvin Klein knickers – good choice – but still. It struck me as a rather eccentric present. And they were rather skimpy – all lacy and see-through. What was the woman trying to say?
Then I realized, they looked familiar. Were they – hang on – oh no! My god, NO! They were MINE!
According to the informative note accompanying the underwear, I left the knickers under the bed at Thursa and Eric’s house. I had visions of Thursa holding them up, going: “But where’s this string supposed to go? There . . . there’s no bottom bit. Eric, I declare this underwear to be the work of satan.”
Thursa sent them to Agent of Death and Her Goatiness, but the package arrived after we left. This time, my over-active imagination has Agent of Death roaring: “Goat Mistress, the light shines right through these. In my opinion, I don’t know why she’d bother wearing knickers at all!”
These days, I am exceedingly careful where I air my underwear