Let me tell you a tale. One about marriage and status. Or maybe just one about marriage.
So, my relationship with my mother has reached a tipping point. That tipping point being that I am 30 and (gasp, shock etc) unmarried.
What this means is that my mom has been mining an Indian marriage site for prospective husbands for me.
(Turns out it’s hard to say no to things when your mom starts crying.)
Any way, about a week ago she began in earnest. First she sent me a few profiles of Doctors in the tristate area. I looked at one or two and immediately rejected the one who was looking for a “descent” girl. We’ll call him Dr. D.
My mom’s reaction?
“Preeti, you have to meet people, you can’t tell from their profile!”
“Mom, I don’t like his pictures, and he couldn’t take the time to proofread his profile?”
Then five minutes of yelling after which I think my exact words were,
“FINE JUST GIVE HIM MY CONTACT INFORMATION JEEZ.”
Any way, so he texts me on the Friday of BEA. I text him back on Saturday asking very politely if he’d like to meet for coffee.
I hear nothing back until Tuesday at 2:30.
Ignoring the three days it took him to respond, well, that’s an hour and a half’s notice, so I asked if we could meet up the following evening. He agreed and we decided to meet at 6:30. But after confirming he says,
Instinct is saying: This guy is going to be terrible.
I reiterated that no, tonight would not work, perhaps next week was better.
I don’t know either, guys.
The next morning I get:
As if we hadn’t already confirmed it?
That evening, I show up on Bedford & N. 8th at 6:25 and take a seat outside a bakery and text to let him know I’m there. At 6:28:
I stand and look around. Nope, no Indians.
Then my phone rings.
Dr. D: Hi Preeti? Are you here?
Me: Yes… I’m .. outside.
Dr. D: Oh, well I just parked and I have to go to the bank so is it okay if I’m ten minutes late?
Me: Sure, I’ll be outside.
He finally shows up around 6:40-6:45, and after getting some juice and a snack, we sit outside to chat. Mostly about him being a doctor. And how hard his life is. Because he’s a doctor. He really needs a wife who is going to be there for him with a cup of coffee when he gets home after a long, hard day.
Dr. D: I mean, when we get married in six months…
Later, chatting about how he wants to open his own practice.
Dr. D: Well, I’d need you for the green card, of course.
After ranting for a few minutes on how Americans hate immigrants, and how they blame immigrants for everything, he finally asks me a question about what I do. I start to go into children’s publishing, but he interrupts with:
Dr. D: You know, I have a lot of interesting stories. I’ve had a lot of experiences that other people haven’t had. I lived in Manhattan for a year.
He proceeds to tell me a somewhat amusing anecdote about this old Indian lady he used to live with. I told him that he could definitely self-publish.
There was much talk of how he couldn’t really see himself living in NYC for much longer. I’ve by now realized that I made a huge mistake in agreeing to this, so I keep doubling down on my intent to live here for as long as possible.
“Yeah, I really need to be here for my work.”
“I just can’t really see myself living anywhere else.”
“New York is obviously the best city in the world.”
I think he’s getting the hint when he starts talking about all the other ladies he has to meet still, because he has to make a decision. He’s not getting any younger. He’s going to meet this girl in Arizona and in California. Then abruptly asks, “Hey what kind of food do you like?”
Me: Oh, uh, so sorry. Didn’t realize we were going to have food. I have an appointment. Very important. Author appointment.
He walks me to the train, which was nice, but then says: “I think this went well, let’s see each other again.”
Me: I’ll have to check my schedule, I’m out of town this weekend.
Dr. D.: Oh right, yeah, I’ll have to check my schedule, too. I mean, I’m meeting those girls in Arizona and California.
Me: Okay, well, nice meeting you…
Dr. D.: Yes, okay. Bye.
It was all terrible.
But it gets more terrible, BECAUSE THE STORY’S NOT OVER YET, GUYS.
I go to meet up with Jenn at Word to tell her all about my woefully wasted evening. Maybe an hour in, I get a text from Dr. D. I’ll just let you read the whole thing.
And that’s the story about how I’m not going to marry an asshole.