More fun with the in-laws

Wow. I skip one weekend of blogging and now I don’t know where to begin. Do I stick to the usual narcissistic themes and catch you up on the in-laws’ visit or do I join the gazillion other bloggers weighing in with their opinions on Neda, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Mark Sanford, and John and Kate. While it’s tempting, I’m not sure I have anything different or more profound to say than what you’ve no doubt already read, so I think I’ll stick to something you certainly can’t find elsewhere on the web.

The top 5 subjects I try to avoid with my in-laws

1. Babies. As I’ve mentioned before, when you’re nearly 30, happily married, and don’t have kids, people start to wonder what’s wrong with you. My in-laws are no different. And while they seem to make an effort to tread lightly on the subject, I’m hyper sensitive to their subtle comments. But I never know how to respond, because I’m not sure what’s worse – if they think there’s something physically wrong with me and I can’t have a baby or if they think I’m too selfish to want one.
2. Food. My food, their food, your food. From their general disgust with the too-large portion sizes in this country to their shock that their daughter-in-law might actually want 3 meals a day, the in-laws have an opinion about every morsel consumed around them, and as you know, I consume a lot of morsels. The M-I-L never fails to comment on my healthy appetite, but of course, she does it under a veil of praise. Example: “Wow, you did really well with that meal; I feel I’ve wasted so much.” I never know what to say to this. Is ‘thanks’ appropriate? Or should I look her in the eye and say “Yes, whatever will you say to the starving children in Africa when you next see them?” Ah, if only…
3. Fat People. Perhaps this stems from their obsession with how much everyone is eating, because the in-laws love talking about Fat People. They like to point them out to make sure you’ve seen them and then make (loud) comments about them. The M-I-L loves to tell you how Britain is no better than America these days – even the children are “piggish.” And the F-I-L will tell anyone who will listen that being fat doesn’t have anything to do with thyroid conditions or other health problems; Fat People just eat too much. And maybe he has a point, but I can’t help but feel indignant on behalf of every pudgy person I know. When I venture to ask them why a total stranger’s weight problem bothers them so much, the M-I-L insists that it makes no difference to her; she just feels sorry for them. The F-I-L barks that he doesn’t feel sorry for them at all, and he has every right to complain because he has to look at them and he does not like looking at Fat People. No, he just likes talking about them.
4. Black People. Now, I want to be clear that my in-laws are not racists, but they’re obviously from an older generation and they do live in South Africa, which I suppose is why they just can’t seem to help themselves from sharing their general observations about “the blacks” in America. It’s not that what they have to say is all that hurtful (“The blacks in America are much prettier/jollier/fatter than the blacks in Africa.”); it’s just the ridiculous generalizing, the use of the term “the blacks,” and more than anything, the volume at which it’s all spoken.
5. My hair. It looks awful at the moment. I can’t quite decide if I’m letting it grow into a wild Carrie Bradshaw-like mane or if I’m ready to cut it off again in an effort to channel a spunkier version of myself. And then there’s the color. It’s as close to natural as it’s been since I was 1o years old, and when your natural color involves the words “dirty” and “dishwater,” natural is to be avoided at all cost. Still, I’ve been avoiding the trip to the salon for awhile now, telling myself the recession made it okay to go natural. In so many words, the F-I-L told me it does not.* Thanks, Dad.

*In fairness, Roger witnessed this conversation and he insists that his father insinuated no such thing. But I’m sorry, when a 70 year old man comments that your hair looks “different” and follows up with “So, uh, how often do you have to go to the salon?” I think it’s safe to assume you’re looking pretty bad. But don’t worry, I’ve already booked my appointment.