Les Liaisons Indésirables
As of February 1st, 2003, I am twenty-five years old according to the Korean age system, which graciously counts the time you spent in your mother's womb, happily oblivious to the fact that you are 9 months closer to your death day as soon as you emerge into this world.
If the significance of this number, twenty-five, escapes some of you, this means to our parents' generation that I have officially entered my peak-marriageable period.
Ah, but wait, it's just my mother. The startling turn of events first came to my notice when my mother and aunt began discussing the merits and virtues of various young men around me without condemning me for being in communication with them. This was startling to me on several counts because my parents were the flaming (not as in homosexual, but as in right-wing-Christian-level-righteousness-and-zeal) personification of OVER-PROTECTIVENESS.
My parents, during my teenage years, bribed other students to spy on me to ensure that I wasn't wasting my supposed brilliance away with worthless delinquents, and on several occasions came to my high school and literally hid behind classroom walls, ordering me to wipe off my lipstick and change my clothes into something "decent."
They were especially vicious when it came to the subject of boys. As far as they were concerned, my having a boyfriend equaled an unwanted pregnancy, failing grades from school , and subsequent, tear-filled flight away from home.
But I, being my parents's own daughter, fought back just as viciously. I took a change of clothes every morning and changed into them in the school bathroom (such dedication to fashion I've never been able to muster since then), bought and put on the darkest lipstick I could find every day, and sought out the most worthless men I could find. I then invited them over on those rare occasions my parents were gone from home (incidentally, neither of them worked for 7 years...their full-time job was to hover, hover over me day in, day out...), and hid them in my closet, shoes and all, when they came home.
So when the time came for me to legitimately get myself out of there by means of a wonderful institution called college, I got the hell out, as far away as I possibly could.
But 3000 miles and 4 years later, my mother has called upon herself to play one more trick on my mind.
She has been incessantly talking about her coworker (that's right, now that I'm gone, they think it'd be fun to work!) who happens to have two grown-up sons. One is a dentist, another an aerospace engineer or similar. One day she sent me a letter along with my W-2 forms, between the folds of which slipped out a business card bearing the name and number of the said aerospace engineer.
"He is 32, but that's not too bad, you know, only 9 years older! You should email him and say hello,"
she cooed innocently, as though she's been sending me surreptitiously placed business cards of potential suitors all her life for me to e-mail, and had every reason to expect me to send a pleasant note saying, ""Hello, xxx. My mother and your father are setting us up. Never mind the fact that you are a 32-year old, single man who allows his father to set up blind dates on his behalf. Want to get together for a cup of coffee?"
Tonight, she called again. She chirped,
"You'll never guess what happened! Haha, remember the aerospace engineer? Did you ever email him by the way? No? Well, his father lent me this book, you see, and guess what he put in there instead of a bookmark! A picture of his son--he's not half bad! And he's asked for a picture of yours, but I can't choose which one to give him!"
..................
I blew up on her. Honestly, can you blame me?
If the significance of this number, twenty-five, escapes some of you, this means to our parents' generation that I have officially entered my peak-marriageable period.
Ah, but wait, it's just my mother. The startling turn of events first came to my notice when my mother and aunt began discussing the merits and virtues of various young men around me without condemning me for being in communication with them. This was startling to me on several counts because my parents were the flaming (not as in homosexual, but as in right-wing-Christian-level-righteousness-and-zeal) personification of OVER-PROTECTIVENESS.
My parents, during my teenage years, bribed other students to spy on me to ensure that I wasn't wasting my supposed brilliance away with worthless delinquents, and on several occasions came to my high school and literally hid behind classroom walls, ordering me to wipe off my lipstick and change my clothes into something "decent."
They were especially vicious when it came to the subject of boys. As far as they were concerned, my having a boyfriend equaled an unwanted pregnancy, failing grades from school , and subsequent, tear-filled flight away from home.
But I, being my parents's own daughter, fought back just as viciously. I took a change of clothes every morning and changed into them in the school bathroom (such dedication to fashion I've never been able to muster since then), bought and put on the darkest lipstick I could find every day, and sought out the most worthless men I could find. I then invited them over on those rare occasions my parents were gone from home (incidentally, neither of them worked for 7 years...their full-time job was to hover, hover over me day in, day out...), and hid them in my closet, shoes and all, when they came home.
So when the time came for me to legitimately get myself out of there by means of a wonderful institution called college, I got the hell out, as far away as I possibly could.
But 3000 miles and 4 years later, my mother has called upon herself to play one more trick on my mind.
She has been incessantly talking about her coworker (that's right, now that I'm gone, they think it'd be fun to work!) who happens to have two grown-up sons. One is a dentist, another an aerospace engineer or similar. One day she sent me a letter along with my W-2 forms, between the folds of which slipped out a business card bearing the name and number of the said aerospace engineer.
"He is 32, but that's not too bad, you know, only 9 years older! You should email him and say hello,"
she cooed innocently, as though she's been sending me surreptitiously placed business cards of potential suitors all her life for me to e-mail, and had every reason to expect me to send a pleasant note saying, ""Hello, xxx. My mother and your father are setting us up. Never mind the fact that you are a 32-year old, single man who allows his father to set up blind dates on his behalf. Want to get together for a cup of coffee?"
Tonight, she called again. She chirped,
"You'll never guess what happened! Haha, remember the aerospace engineer? Did you ever email him by the way? No? Well, his father lent me this book, you see, and guess what he put in there instead of a bookmark! A picture of his son--he's not half bad! And he's asked for a picture of yours, but I can't choose which one to give him!"
..................
I blew up on her. Honestly, can you blame me?