Today's question: "So...just how old does one have to be at the Hyannis Port compound (read: in-laws' cottage) in order to sleep in the same bed with one's spouse?"
This question was innocently/playfully/delightfully/sarcastically posed by a female guest whilst charming husband and incredulous middle-aged brothers inhaled sharply, madly shaking their heads while making furious cutting motions against their throats lest mother-in-law hear question. I mean god forbid she think we (sons and spouses; some married more than 2 decades) have been "gasp" sleeping together.
[The Hyannis Port compound is a fairly stunning piece of lake property housing two 50-year-old cottages with the ability to sleep something like 18+ all comfortably celibate-ly ensconced in twin beds, more often than not in bunk-like configurations. True story: when charming husband and I were first married mother-in-law had "little" cottage (all tangible items at the compound artfully named, e.g. big boat, tin boat, the laser, etc. etc.) moved 20 feet further away from "big" cottage (little cottage = two bedrooms w/ half wall and, wait for it, 5 twin beds (that a whole 'nother story since 6 of us have been sharing it for 16 or so years) in order that mother-in-law would not even have to think about us sleeping together. If one thinks the moving of the cottage was a kind gesture allowing a newly wed couple some privacy, one would be wrong.]
Effing (by which I mean formidable) mother-in-law is an imposing figure and, well, frankly, sometimes scary. I am the first to admit that I do as much trembling/grovelling in front of f-mil as do any of her sons, but for god's sake the eldest is 56 years old and still sleeps in a twin bed! You would think one could at least broach this subject/offer to purchase a double-bed, but then one does not know f-mil nor her children.
Charming husband and brothers are like 10 years old when it comes to f-mil. For example, the amount of conniving required to take a simple trip to town in order to buy a case of beer/bottle of wine is mind-boggling. Entire afternoons are spent with grown men engaged in much whispering, dreaming up of possible projects that would require a trip to town to purchase supplies, pussyfooting around f-mil to see if she might need something from the grocery store (this in itself raising huge red-flags as boys' offers to help have not been proffered since like 1975). One recent such hour-plus long finagling session left me so exasperated that I finally jumped in and said (to their horror) "for god's sake, can't you just say hey mom we're going to town for a case of beer, do you want anything?" To which f-mil, not missing a beat, replied, "Please, beer would be great, and could you get the paper." (Like I told you, scary.) So you think they would thank me, right? Wrong-o.
The boys, those ingrates, scowled at me so ferociously you would think I had just used their stupid super secret frat boy handshake (you know, the one that allows one to become invisible so that one can behave like a drunk-assed hormone-filled no-holds barred juvenile—the handshake that no-one could have possibly figured out in the last 2000+ years of frat-boying, the one that my girlfriends and I use on girls' trips). Nope, no such thanks forthcoming. Instead, no one would play with me all day, even after they got their beer, and I still had to make their dinner and clean up after them (and that wasn't the kind of invisible I wanted to become).
I don't know what to make of this. All I can conclude is that they actually like the fact that their mother instills fear in them: they like to be 10 years old again and conspiring against her; they like to tremble with the thought that they are going to be punished for something at any minute; they like the big game of trying to see what they can get away with. And, because when you're a 10 year old boy you're still kinda not sure if girls are icky . . . the "boys" don't seem to mind sleeping in twin beds (at least not as long as there's that outside chance some girl might slip under the sheets in the middle of the night and have very very quiet sex with you).
[Oh yeah, and while you are being quiet, remember to just close your eyes to block out the 4 children trying to sleep in 3 beds less than 10 feet away.]
Please please please do not let me become the kind of f-mil people fear (actually, do not let me become a mother-in-law of any kind for a very long time!). Heck, I'm still waiting to get to be a 10 year old boy—or, better, waiting for someone/anyone to think of me as a mil-f.
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