Get That Shotgun Off My Face, Please!

Yesterday, after meeting several friends I haven’t seen in a very long time, I did the unthinkable and brought a man home.

Before there’s any reaction from my readers, I would like to clarify the idea. I did not do anything dirty, and I had no intention to. It was just the literal meaning of the phrase “brought a man home” and nothing else. This isn’t a big deal for most families but for mine, it is. No matter how I try to assert an inconspicuous existence in this house, I am still my parents’ only child, about to turn 30, and a doctor at that, and apparently it’s a very big deal for them that I am still single and have always stayed single ever since I breathed my first breath in this world. And so no matter how I try to convince them otherwise, they have always made it known in their quiet and sometimes-not-so-subtle ways that they’re getting on in their years and I, in my pathetic solitary state, should already come to my senses because I owe them an apo.

And so, that being the state of my household, I refused to face the facts and still decided to bring my man home. And by “my man”, I mean someone I’ve grown up with, known to the core for the past 15 years, cried with, argued with, vomited with (or even vomited at), everything you can imagine good old childhood friends have shared, plus everything they will probably share (heartbreaks, weddings, christenings, strollers, glucometers, arthritis medications, Viagra prescriptions, funeral homes). It was a great thing that “my man” is a tall, great-looking, smart, funny, thoughtful and sweet guy who happens to be interested in farming and who happens to be straight. Although it was also an absurd coincidence that he was single.

That being the state of “my man”, I forewarned him. The last time I brought a man home, the household was in an uproar and my dad gave him the interview and there was a shotgun displayed in the bathroom for him to gaze at. A not-so-subtle way of pointing a shotgun at someone, huh?

My good friend said he wouldn’t mind. And so the visit went on. The evening and the conversations were excellent, light, humorous, and natural. We visited the farm, talked about future ventures. There was no grand interview, no bottle of brandy, no shotgun, not even until I hugged my friend goodbye. We looked at each other, “No shotgun.” And we laughed. Boy, I was relieved.

When my friend was gone, my mother came to me. And she said, “OK sya.” I just glared back. She then proceeded to lecture me on marriage and family life.

I just kept quiet. There was no grand interview, no bottle of brandy, no shotgun in the bathroom. But this was worse. The shotgun was being pointed right at me.

Next time, it's going to be a cannon, or an armalite, I'd bet. Plus a knife at my throat. Waaah!