In-Laws

Almost everyone (that I know or hear about) hates their in-laws; it's in every movie you watch, every book you read, every song you hear. I don't feel at all unique in my hatred for them, deserved or un (goodness knows, they do a lot for us - I'm just not quite sure if it outweighs what they do against us), nor do I feel particularly unique in my reasons for hating them, at least not any more. Ever since I've seen what they do to me done to countless daughters-in-law in movies and TV, it's been hard to feel special about that.

Yes, I said hate.
I may even have meant it.

Eighteen. That's how old I was when I moved out here, away from home and friends into a strange new world (Mars is nice, I used to think as I looked around the suburb of Detroit I found myself in) that was exactly that, no exageration. In Kalamazoo and Portage, there aren't even neighborhoods that look like what I found in Grosse Pointe, or what I continue to see. Sure, the town's got great parks, great schools, great 'networking potential' (or at least it did, but my theories on that are for a different entry, I think) and hundreds of other superlatives going for it . . . but it's also full of the rudest, snottiest people I've ever met in my life, kids not disincluded. Money, even old money, doesn't equal manners, though one (I) would think it ought. No, as far as etiquette goes, the kid from the poor town on the other side of the state, bordered on three sides by farms, is more educated than the doctors, lawyers and CEOs that surround her.

Anyway, I was eighteen. I was in love. I was young, and stupid, and countless other things that eighteen year olds are prone to be . . . and the first thing my in-laws did was discredit me to anyone that I came into contact with. For years, I was stupid, a whore, and . . . I don't think I've heard all the things they've said about me yet. I know I really don't want to. The first time I heard someone say something along those lines, it felt like a smack (not a slap, smack has a far more satisfying ring to it, and it's more like how it felt) to the face. I know I got very pale except for the apples of my cheeks and my forehead were, which were very red. I know that my eyes were very wide, and the dark, stormy blue-gray they only get when I'm about to cry or hit someone. I know my freckles stood out like braile, or maybe bas relief. I know these things because I was in the produce section of a produce store and I could see my reflection in the bowl-thing at the bottom of the scale. Didn't I see you with what's-his-name last night? If Jerry finds out . . . And then there was a lot of faux sympathetic, tell-me-more, unneeded and unwanted advice.

It wasn't the only time that, or something similar, happened.

When I got married, I was twenty. I'd had four male lovers (two of them were one night stands, one was a week-long fling, and the other was a 'real' relationship for several months) and one female (that lasted a year) who weren't my husband, and none of them before I was eighteen. The comments changed from what a whore I was to how stupid, or what a bad cook, or . . . whatever. Did Jerry teach you how to make that? I mean, if you made mashed potatoes out of a box . . . I know you only have your high school diploma, but . . . I don't even really pay attention any more, at least not until they get to a place where they discredit me in front of my kids.

I was twenty-three, or just a couple months shy of, when my older daughter was born. They started trying to take her (and other family members, but that's a different story) away from me that day - not physically, perhaps, but emotionally, mentally. To this day, they can't just admit she looks almost exactly like I did when I was a kid. Isn't it cute how much M looks like your sister, H? Look at that red hair, just like M's. As she's gotten older, it's escalated; now, they try to bribe her. Popsicles, candy, toys, money . . . it doesn't really matter what, so long as it's something she doesn't get from me on a regular basis. Love me more, they scream with each nearly forbidden treat they shove in her four-year-old face. Meanwhile, M's little sister, L, is all but forgotten in favor of M, who's nearly forgotten in favor of B, her cousin. And they wonder why they don't see my girls often.

So, yeah. Almost everyone hates their in-laws . . . add my name to that list, too.