When I met my husband, I knew instantly that he was the one, that I would marry him one day and have his children. Of this I was certain. THIS is why I wanted to make a great first impression on my future inlaws.
But first, I had to win over the brother. The first time we met, Adrian and I had just returned from a rousing hike in the woods. We *may* have snuck into a cave for a quick smooch, and I *may* have stood up on my way out and cracked my skull on a rocky overhang. Of course, I didn't let on that I had a banged my head. No, head injuries are not sexy. I carried on as though I wasn't seeing stars, and we trekked back to the car. We stopped in at his parent's to pick something up. They were at work so I was safe. However, his younger brother was there. We met in the kitchen, shook hands, and he looked me over. It seemed to be going well until I felt a trickle run down my temple, across my cheek, and off my chin. We all saw it at the same time. A crimson drop of blood splashed onto the granite countertop.
"Um, you're bleeding. Like, a lot," my future brother inlaw informed me.
When I told him how I'd received this affliction (after first aid was performed), he looked at his brother and said, "She's a keeper." Such a brat.
Later that week (my head healed nicely by the way), I was invited to a dinner party to meet the parents. Holy Fockers, I was nervous. What if they didn't like me?
I arrived at their home with wine and flowers, hair done, make-up applied, dressed like a respectable potential future daughter-in-law. We sat in their formal dining room and chatted.
Everything was going smoothly until Adrian started telling a story about the "dinks on his car." Dinks. He obviously meant dings, but he said dinks. Several times. Dinks.
I was able to hold it together because I am incredibly mature.
But, as soon as his brother, who was seated across from me made eye contact, I knew I was in trouble.
He kicked my shin to get my attention so he could show me his impressions of rubbery, floppy dinks on a car (hand gestures and mouthing of the word dink achieved this effect perfectly).
I still didn't laugh but started to sweat.
Adrian continued his story about the trials and frustrations of somebody leaving dinks on you car in a parking lot.
I was dying. DYING.
Again another kick in the shin followed by more hand gestures.
I was now sweaty and red and my shoulders began to shake.
If Adrian said dink one more time, I was a gonner.
Fortunately the meal came out and I was saved. Thankfully, there were no sausages served or that would have been it for me.
I made it through the meal without laughing or choking or doing anything that might ruin my inlaws' first impression of me. Overall, I think they liked me. And I was proud of myself for getting through the dinner without exploding into laughter and falling off my chair.
Have you ever made a bad first impression? Please share. I promise I won't think you're a dink.
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