My father thinks I have a secret boyfriend. He is adamant. Convinced. Every time I go out, dressed to the nines, he smiles in this arrogant, knowing way and asks “What’s his name?”. It was funny the first time, but one year down the line, I have run out of comebacks and I simply end up passionately defending myself, as if he’s just accused me of murder. This, of course, only makes him more certain than ever that I am seeing someone on the sly, and he continues to smile smugly and simply replies, “Next time bring him round so we can meet him…”
And I know you’re thinking this is a cute little joke my father and I share, but it’s not. He really believes I have a boyfriend. He has interrogated my friends, trying to win them over and get them to spill the proverbial beans. They, of course, have nothing to spill, unless he wants a catalogue of bad dating stories. Unfortunately this only encourages him…it must be really serious if even my friends have been sworn to secrecy. So yes, he is convinced, CONVINCED, I have a secret boyfriend.
This is both flattering and infuriating. Flattering, because in my father’s mind, how is it possible that a pretty, intelligent, kind and interesting girl is single. Infuriating, because I agree. Godammit.
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