How To Date A Mama’s Boy

Meet in stained gray sweatpants, at the mile-long line at the pharmacy. Like a rom com about elderly bridge enthusiasts. First, check your watch to see if it matches the time on the clock, sigh dramatically, eye the calorie-coated chocolate hearts lining the aisles of the well-stocked store; already some Easter baskets, like your mother makes, are surrounded by fluffy toy rabbits on mounds of glittering, artificial grass. You are waiting to buy your ointment.

He emerges from behind a pyramid of paper towels, looks like Sheldon Cooper, the humidity rolling, then blaring, then sort of latching onto your skin as he stands behind you. He asks you for a mint and you chuckle a bit, amused, but you give him your “Skinny Gals” mints. He’s missing a front tooth, missing a finger. He plops the mint in his mouth, rolling the sweet with his tongue, and gasps loudly, like a choking man. He frowns as he catches his breath, returns you the mints, looks at your face, says: “Too sweet”.

He then returns to his spot behind you, waiting. Perhaps for the same type of ointment. The two of you stare openly at each other, feet stuck to the floor. You are two impatient toddlers banging your sticky fists against your thighs, scowling at the lack of attention, t-shirts stained with miscellaneous blobs of breakfast.

You turn on your iPhone, connect to the Wifi. A minute goes by and he asks what you’re reading. It’s an article about the ten best cats to cuddle. He smiles, interested.

“I have three,” you hear him mutter, a thick New Jersey accent slobbering over his words.

Glance up. Say: “I have one too. His name is Sir Up.”

It sounds dumb. He doesn’t even laugh.

But it is how you meet.

He escorts you to the fanciest restaurant he can afford, Olive Garden.

He forgets to pull out your seat for you, but you don’t mind, he’s paying for dinner.

He left his wallet at home, and you sigh softly and slide your Visa card out from your slightly scratched crimson purse, wiping off the cat fur clinging to the side.

But at least he's there; he listens to you, asks you questions about your ointment, argues with you about whether The View or Ellen is a better show. He’s genuinely interested when you talk about your mother’s surprise birthday party. Asks if he can have the name of the venue.

He’s nice. Says: “You remind me of my mother....in a good way.”

You grin, reply with a “Thanks”. A guy hasn’t complimented you in a while.

It’s about time.

As you approach his house, you slide the car into park. Two stories tall, strict red brick walls with chipped cream columns in the front. A lawn gnome waves at you.

“It looks cosy.” You find yourself saying, strolling with him to the door.

“I know right?” He responds, all bloated with arrogance and a free meal of spaghetti and meatballs. His breath reeks of garlic and desperation. He leans down towards your lips and you lean up. Start to kiss him in front of the house. To the disappointment of your tingling lips, he shoves you to the sidewalk when the door flies open. Is it his wife? No, she’s too old and too calm. Must be his mom. You help yourself to your feet and almost miss the kiss he plops down upon his mother’s thin lips. Resist the urge to gag as she calls him “Cutie Pie” and “Cuddle Buddy” and “The Only Valentine I Need”. Contemplate running back to your silver Chevy and escaping to your apartment.

“This is Emily. I met her at the pharmacy. We were buying the same ointment.” He says, much to your embarrassment. Her olive eyes narrow with judgement and she pulls him closer to her flabby chest.

“Oh, I see,” is her kind response.

“Nice to meet you,” You say, before planting a goodbye kiss on his stubbly cheek.

“I’ll call you!” He shouts.

“Ok, Archibald.”

You wear your tight teal dress on the second date. You throw on skimpy silver heels for the third. You toss on a tight neon pink push-up bra for the fourth. She hates you, his bespectacled, forever frowning, wrinkled mother, and you start to relish her animosity. Never before have you been the forbidden, dangerous, bad girl and you enjoy slipping into that disguise after a hard day of filing tax returns at the office.

Perfumes with names like “Sunny Sweetheart” and “Barbados Babe” and “Malibu Beauty” adorn your medicine cabinet. His mother hates the beach. Flamingo pink lipstick is your new favorite color. His mother claimed only teenagers with low self-esteem wear that shade.

“You look nice.” He says tonight, as you wear a skin tight mini skirt and a sparkly turquoise top. You look ridiculous, but feel fantastic especially when you see his mother glare at you from a second story window. She followed you on your last date, circling around the parking lot of the Tijuana Flats in her plain white mini van. But his back was to the window and he just continued chewing the enchilada like it was the ambrosia of the gods. So you didn’t mention it.

He, however, mentions his mother a lot. Points out the picture of her in his wallet, cut carefully into a heart shape. Has a special ringtone for whenever she calls, some smooth, jazzy, romantic tune that belongs back in the old faded movie it crawled out from. Hours are spent yammering about her various make-believe and real-life illnesses and how much he loves her.

That’s the routine with him: go out to dinner, hear him praise his mother, kiss him good night, receive the evening scowl of his prowling mother.

You should stop this once and for all. But all you do is watch the front door close and breathe in the hate.