My parents have been trying to hold a spintervention for my chronic singlehood since I moved back to London. It’s wrong.
They’re scared I’m gay because I have an undercut and sit with legs too wide apart.
There is a right way to be a woman in their eyes. All my achievements pale in comparison to my latent ability to pop out a few kids and be a good wife to a man who will tolerate my outspokenness.
I’ve been told I don’t look 38 (a selling point my dad is constantly mentioning to anyone who looks remotely eligible who comes knocking). They tried to set me up with the guy who came to read the meter. It’s exhausting.
It pains them to think that my pretty face and functional uterus are going to waste. But I don’t want to have kids. Or get married. And that isn’t normal.
When I was a kid I never pretended to get married. A boy kissed me during kiss chase and I clocked him. I wanted transformers not Barbies. I wanted to be Sarah Connor and takedown Skynet.
It’s a waste of pretty to them.