Meet the Parents.

I've been dating Andrew for almost a year now. I can imagine that we are in the perfect relationship.

We have not fought. When we get angry we logically try to calm ourselves down, or throw ourselves into laughing fits over the stupidity of my outrageously high voice.
We do not have affairs. We both openly express our desire for the opposite sex and point out characteristics that we enjoy in them, but both of us are too lazy and too comfortable to be arsed with another person.
We make eachother laugh. We spend hours listening to eachother's charm and wit, laughing blissfully into the phone receiver, with pleasant smiles on our faces.
We are both logically and emotionally stable. Neither of us have gone on a moodswing from hell, or a two-week-long-pointless depression. We understand what needs to be done, and how it can be done. We are realistic with our goals, and smart with our lifestyles and comfort zones.

Yes, it sounds perfect. Of course there is always a but.

Andrew and I live two hours apart, and until two days ago, I had never really stepped into his world.

Andrew makes a trip once a week to spend a day with me in my town. We enjoy eachother's company, gamble at a local casino, watch stupid movies or walk on the beach. Whatever we do, it is brilliant.
His mother has been dying to meet me for months, but I work a night shift, have no reasonable way of getting to his city and of course, him and I never have the same days off.
We finally aranged a day. I bought wine, I dolled myself up. He picked me up from work, worried that I wouldn't be able to function on no sleep and I assured him I would be fine.

We spent the earlier part of the day eating Mexican food, picking out houses where we could live, decided that our daughter's name had to be Apple, as we both wish to see her become a stripper.
We went to an art gallery and he laughed at the light in my eyes as I adored the Monet's and the Van Gogh's. He listened intently as I told him why all the sculptures had an S curve and afterwards told me that I was a good teacher. We purposely mispronounced, "Picasso" to annoy a pretentious old lady with an upturned nose.

It was perfect.But the time was drawing closer for me to meet his parents and finally it came.

Dinner was fine. We joked about awful Americans, discussed politics and I was bewildered by the amount of intellect that Andrew's family owned. My family was nothing like this and for the first time in a long time, I felt a little stupid.

The next day Andrew and I spoke on the phone for a short amount of time. I was eager to find out what his family had to say about his girlfriend, and the outcome was insanely disturbing.

"My mother says you're a looker."
"What?"
"She said that you have an amazing complexion and very milky skin. She said you were a looker."
"Oh dear."
"What?"
"I would have prefered if your mother thought I was a 'nice girl,' not a looker."
"Meh."

I have never been called a looker before. Not even by my family members.

I am confused by this comment. I don't know what to expect from Andrew's parents. Do they think I'm a stupid, simple girl with more beauty than brains? I do not know what to make of this. It is awful.

What the hell.

Either way, Andrew went on to say how happy he was that the two of us could stay together for sixteen hours without being annoyed.

"What do you mean Andrew? Of course we could stay together for sixteen hours and not be annoyed with eachother."
"Yeah, but it's the first time we did it."
"What happens when we move in together?"
"I take more shifts at work, obviously."

I sighed miserably, wondering if our relationship was the perfect one that I thought it was. He assured me that he was joking, but of course women never do jokes well.

I am sure Andrew is the one that I will spend the rest of my life with, but there's always the overwhelming ping of fear that smacks me upside the head after realising that the most time we have spent together in a year is probably less than three months combined.

I wonder if it will last sometimes, I wonder if there will be a wedding and a home.

But with the 50% chance of failure and the disturbingly small chance of ever being happily married to another man after the first failed love, I wonder if love will ever be worth it.