At 37, I thought I’d earned the right to date without supervision. But my mother had other plans – like hiding in my closet during my first dinner with Theo, wearing a headlamp and clutching a thermos like some middle-aged secret agent.
“Just checking for moths!” she lied, dusting off her pants as she emerged. Theo, bless him, extended a hand. “Mrs. Wilkins, what an… unexpected pleasure.”
What followed was the most humiliating interrogation of my life. “How many ex-girlfriends?” “What’s your credit score?” “Show me your teeth.” Theo handled it like a champ, even when she made him demonstrate his table-wiping skills. But when she presented her handwritten “Rules for Dating My Daugter” (yes, misspelled), even saintly Theo had to excuse himself.
Three days of radio silence later, he reappeared with the most bizarre proposition: “I’m taking you both on a date.” What followed was the strangest courtship in history – my literature professor boyfriend lecturing about Shakespearean love while my mom heckled from the back row, a disastrous boating incident where she “accidentally” fell in the lake (and Theo dove in after her), and an impromptu rock climbing session where she threatened to haunt him if she fell.
The punchline? After surviving Mom’s gauntlet, Theo proposed – with her blessing. Now she brags to her book club about how she “trained him right.” Some things never change.
