The Urban Celibate(?) Meets Mum, Dad & Father Christmas

Posted on 09. Feb, 2009 by in Lifestyle

by Mz. Moxy

1151 days into self-imposed celibacy ended recently with a (long overdue) bang. From this excursion into deserted tundra, I have been blessed with ninja-like intuition and Quattro Razor sharp insight. Not unlike Jim Morrison the Lizard King rebirthing in the desert sun, through two years of abstinence, I have been divined with supernatural powers of relationship perception– sans the two scoops of peyote. Forsaking the distant cave dwelling where many Sikhs choose residency, my hideaway guru-pad is perched in West Hollywood – not on a remote mountaintop, but just off of Melrose Avenue on a slight incline.

For readers of The Urban Celibate, this is certainly a momentous occasion. As a friend once said, “When it’s wrong you can’t do anything right, and when it’s right, you can’t do anything wrong.” Every now and then a person comes along that is just too good to miss.

During my extended solo flight, I had two major fears. One was that I would shake my newly found sturdy foundation by finding another big love. The darker fear was that I wouldn’t. Indulging in routine fears and misconceptions is an unaffordable luxury when something worthwhile is on the line. At the end of the day, nothing good comes from fear. This situation despite its complicated logistics, has come about quite easily. This makes me think that I wasn’t celibate for all that time – I just didn’t tinker with what I knew was going nowhere. I’m a high roller, but only if the stakes are dear.

In a quick fire turn into the relationship zone, this holiday season brought many new Yuletide experiences…including but limited to, meeting my boyfriend’s family. I had approximately six weeks to mentally fortify myself for this mission, and started prep work early. As previously stated, my handsome lad is British, and from the North, specifically. Northerners have a reputation for being quite rough and tumble, contrary to the ‘tea and crumpets’ Englishmen that Americans normally envision straightening their cravats.

Before I headed over to the Motherland, I packed three dresses below knee-level to maintain my matronly modesty at Christmas dinner with the brood. I funneled what would have been a six week anxiety wave by obsessing, in a displaced fashion, of what to get Mum Yvonne and Father Terry for Christmas. This became a game of wits and immaturity with my gay best friend, Charles J.

Every morning Charles J would call and ask, “What are we getting the family for Christmas?” Los Angeles mementos, digital photo frames, high tech ice scrapers, bottles of wine, and Hickory Farm gift baskets all found their way into the suggestion pool. None seemed personal enough, without being presumptuous to be the right choice.

While sure, a vacuum-pack machine to keep meats fresh during an impending nuclear crisis would be especially handy, but does it really convey that personal touch? Being too intimate might seem like I’m stretchin’ out the old calf muscles for a sprint down the wedding aisle. Striking this delicate balance was particularly challenging, and eventually gave way to nightmare fantasy scenarios of the most inappropriate gifts one could bestow upon meeting someone’s family for the first time.

The fact that we’ve never met lends itself to the believability of all sorts of bizarre behavior, sparking hilarious imagined Yuletide scenes. Little Drummer Boy would crackle on the old time radio with the aroma of freshly spiced cider wafting through the house. Yvonne would delicately open her gift, saving the paper for later. To her surprise, it’s a framed 8 X 10 full color glossy headshot of me in a black turtleneck, spandex leggings and white Capezio shoes, with my signature over-the-shoulder pose as I wink at the camera. In the weeks preceding my family visit, these scenes became increasingly twisted imaginations. Eventually, through much analysis, Charles J and I scientifically determined that the most effed up present one could give a new sweetheart’s parents would be a leather gimp mask and a Thomas Kincaid Christmas card.

Meeting the folks is a universally
unnerving experience, and for good reason. Impressions form quickly, and rarely bounce back from disapproval. It’s a serious gesture of commitment, and facing a protective mother is voluntarily throwing oneself into the lion’s den; and as a right of passage in any serious relationship, most of us will face our moment in the coliseum. GULP.

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