Trying to understand why parents hate me

One nice thing about being married to a woman close to my own age: no living in-laws. Now, that may seem harsh, but I don’t mean it that way. I met Mrs. Taylor’s (formerly Lori Frankforter’s) father only once, shortly before he passed away. He seemed like a fascinating man; someone I would have enjoyed knowing.

Likewise, Mrs. T’s (fLF’s) mother – from all I’ve heard – was a nice enough woman. I would have liked them both.

But if past experience is any indication, they would not have liked me.

Ever since Diana, my first “real” girlfriend at age 16, girls’ parents have hated my stinking guts. I’m not sure why.

I’ve been told by people who should know that I have something of a blind spot when it comes to my own personal (and, apparently, abundant) flaws. Whether these decades of parental disdain are the direct result of one of these flaws is anybody’s guess, but it has always been a problem.

Not a problem for me, so much, but for the parents. One thing I have learned over the years; if a girl’s parents dislike you, odds are their daughter will wind up liking you even more. A psychiatrist could probably explain this dynamic, but I can’t.

Diana, for instance. I’m certain both her mother and father spent most of their free time trying to figure out ways to kill me and make it look like an accident.

He was a preacher, she a preacher’s wife. In their minds my death would have been nothing but divine intervention, God’s way of ridding the world of a menace on a par with Judas Iscariot or the antichrist.

The Good Reverend was convinced I had “designs” on his daughter. That’s exactly how he put it to me early on in our relationship: designs. I assured him this was not the case, but of course I was lying through my teeth and we both knew it.

I mean, I was 16, man! “Designs” weighed so heavily on my mind that I could barely figure out how to put my socks on in the morning. It wasn’t my fault. A billion years of evolution had made me that way! (By the way, evolution is an excuse you do not want to fall back on when defending your zealous libido to a girlfriend’s fundamentalist minister father. Found that one out the hard way.)

Point is, Diana’s parents hated me. I’m sure they were thrilled when she finally dumped me for a guy who owned his own car.

The parents of my next serious girlfriend, Corky, were atheists; cool, ultra-liberal hippy-types. They smoked pot. They read Rolling Stone and spent hours out on their back deck practicing tunes on their alto recorders and lutes. Corky’s dad’s hair was longer than mine, for cryin’ out loud!

They should have loved me, but didn’t. I’m guessing it was for the same reason Diana’s folks didn’t love me.

To be fair, I understood this attitude better years later, shortly after my own daughter hit her teens. As a parent, I spent many a late night waiting on the front porch, wishing I owned a shotgun.

But that all changed once Aubreii married. I liked her husband a lot and my days of boyfriend-hating and shotgun-wishing were over.

Not so with my first set of in-laws. They hated me even after I walked their daughter down the aisle. They did their best to hide it, but I could tell.

There have been a few wives and many girlfriends since then (which, I suppose, helps explain why parents hate me). I’ll be the first to admit I’ve had a tough time with commitment. I mean, most guys develop at least a little emotional maturity before they’re old enough to qualify for AARP membership.

What can I say. I’m a late bloomer. Or, possibly, just kind of stupid. Either way, I seem to be getting the hang of this whole relationship thing. Finally, and at long last.

Mrs. T (fLF) seems pretty happy with my performance so far, at any rate.

So who knows? Maybe it would be a good thing after all if my in-laws were still with us. Maybe I’ve finally become someone a parent could like.

Maybe.

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