My mother crashed my date two weeks ago. [take a moment to let that sink in.] It had been a beautiful night. The June heat was tempered by soft zephyrs, and New York was in a good, celebratory mood. I watched the confluence of naked cowboys and tourists with fanny packs and locals with furrowed brows, as I sat at the Rockefeller fountain eating a Magnolia cupcake--with my friend to my left and my mother to my right.
There was much logistical deliberation that day. I was to get dinner with an old friend (who shall remain anonymous for the sake of his reputation and sanity) and my mother was going to visit her sister in the city. My aunt and uncle had come for a physician's conference, and had an event at 6. My mother said she would meet me after work so we could ride the bus home together. I told her I could meet up with her after having dinner with my friend, and my aunt suggested my mother stay in the hotel room for a couple of hours to relax, nap, watch TV, until I was ready. It seemed like a solid plan.
My cousin and his girlfriend came up to the city. My mother felt out of place, and wanted to give them some privacy. She does not like to impose on young people, has always believed in the "live and let live" mantra--which is why she left my cousin and his girlfriend to hang out with my friend and me.
I had barely dug into my smorgasbord of spinach, sriracha, and tofu before I got my mother's first text. She must have initially thought she would feign composure, and asked me, "Ruch, what's going on?" I didn't respond right away, and within twelve seconds I got four consecutive messages from her, each exponentially more desperate than the next. The truth finally came out. She said she wouldn't even mind walking to where I was, so I wouldn't have to take the trouble to get her.
For my mother, anything. It's never trouble. And this case was no different. I was surged with a sense of familial protection, and explained the situation to my friend. I assumed he'd be disappointed, or would want to part ways after dinner, but instead he shrugged and smiled. "I love Mrs. Desai. She's a great woman. I'd love to see her."
And that's when the sense of duty to my mother turned into gastro-intenstinal discomfort. I clearly envisioned the way the next hour would come to pass. I texted my mother, informing her that my friend wanted to come say, "hi." She ignored my information, and continued to pursue my whereabouts. I would provide her with my ETA, and reiterated that I was with my friend but she seemed unabashed. She then called me, telling me she didn't have her reading glasses on and it was easier for her to call me rather than text.
In fairness to my mother, she was in a tough, awkward position. She was trying to give my cousin and his girlfriend time to themselves, trying to give the next generation the opportunity to come into its own, and unintentionally gave me a coronary whilst destroying any perception of cool anyone had of me. The night hadn't turned out the way she had planned, and she felt perpetually uncomfortable and out of place.
Poor thing.
In all fairness to me, my mother should wear her reading glasses.
After we got cupcakes, we met my mother across the street. Her face noticeably changed as her eyes darted from me to my friend. Her face flushed. My friend and my mother exchanged the usual niceties, hugged, she noticed his change in height and he noticed her change in weight, and then everyone sat down by the fountain. I assumed my mother was hungry so I gave her half of my cupcake. I wasn't sure why they were both willingly present. My mother seemed frozen to her concrete seat, clicking away at her blackberry, finally comprehending the messages I sent her. My friend was a good sport, and engaged my mother in discussions on our high school friends, his new job, New York City life. I stuffed my face with cupcake, so I could be relieved of the obligation to speak.
I still felt bad at how terribly the night had turned out for my mother, as I was still too numb from shock to realize how horrifying the night had turned out for me, and for my friend nonetheless. So, as we were walking to Port Authority, I constantly reached back, trying to grab my mother's hand to give her solace. She wanted to give me privacy, and so would not meet my hand, prompting me to reach back even further. My friend was walking slightly ahead of me, and so I was looking ahead, trying to match his enthusiasm as I internally combusted. I was therefore walking sideways, with my chest facing the street. I walked like that for three avenues.
We took the bus back to Ridgewood. Together. Before we got on the bus, my mother had begged me, in Gujarati, to sit with my friend, and apologized profusely for ruining my night, and his, especially. I told her not to worry; I had of course planned on sitting with him, and she had ruined my entire life, not just my night. She then slept soundly in the front, as we chatted in the back.
My mother's first date was almost twenty five years ago, when she got ice cream with my father. Soon after, they got engaged; and the history of my existence thus ensued. The comfort and stability of marriage gradually settled in, and the thrill of adventure and ice cream parlors subsided. About 21 years into the relationship, my parents decided to spice things up. They bought Optimum for our home, so they could see a free movie every Tuesday night. It's usually the 7:00 show, but it hasn't always been a successful endeavor. Sometimes, my father comes home from work too late and collapses on the couch--shoes, shirt, half-eaten bowl of lentils and all. Other times, my mother falls asleep in the movie theater. It's free, so she never feels like she wasted money.
I guess my mother had just needed a change.
As I was getting off the bus, I apologized again for the way the night turned out, and my friend reassured me, "Don't worry about it, Rucha; next time, I'll bring my mother."
