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Diaryrings

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2001-08-09 - 9:40 p.m.

OK, so once, I dated this guy who we'll call Tom. We'll call him Tom because that was his name.

Tom was a few bricks short of a load. I had a good time dating him, but I'm amazed that I did, looking back on it.

You see, Tom was the fourth of four children, and the youngest by about eighteen years. He was that "miracle baby" and because his family was Catholic and pretty traditional, they treated him like a king because he was a boy.

He was very much a mama's boy: he didn't know how to do his own laundry, and since, at 20, he still lived with his parents, he had no need to do it. He worked at the local Starbucks, but about halfway through our relationship, he was fired for never showing up.

Tom's mother did not like me. She did not think that I was good enough for her son. Now, keep in mind, Tom was a college dropout, and he didn't go to a very good school to begin with.

But she still thought that the sun rose and set on him, and that I was several castes below him.

Once, she told me that I needed to "get a handle" on my "weight problem, before it became a real issue." I was a size 12 then, as I am now. I do not think I have a weight problem.

Sometimes Tom would ask if I could stay overnight, and she always said I could, but rather than letting me sleep in the spare room, or even making up one of the couches for me, she put me on the couch in the basement, three floors below Tom's room. That's right, I was put in the mildew-smelling, no-light basement. And, shockingly, I didn't think myself ill-used at the time.

This just goes to show you exactly what I expect (and receive) from relationships.

TRQ

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