My mother has a boyfriend

Mom’s in Love

My sixty-five year old mother has a boyfriend. And just when I thought it was safe to go back into the world and live my life. Now that I’ve gotten the children to feed and dress themselves and my husband to choose his own ties with confidence, I find myself playing senior psychologist for my new man-minded mother and her new-found romance. Our phone calls feel more like psychologist’s sessions than our usual mother/daughter chats. She is no longer the calm and in-control mom I used to know. She’s become an insecure neurotic wreck.
All of a sudden she is now extremely body conscience. In a heroic attempt to lose her non-dating weight, Mom is existing merely on broccoli on Branola sandwiches. There’s no more picking between meals, no more of her old rationalizations like, “carrot cake is a vegetable.” No more chocolate bars with her L. A. Law. She now “works out” at a gym called Sinewy Seniors. Every morning she goes to “feel the burn”. This from a woman who used to consider getting out of bed a sit-up.
She’s obsessed with her wardrobe. Her new clothing expenditures exceed that of the gross national debt. He must never see her in the same thing twice. She must really have high hopes for this relationship, because she has already stockpiled a wardrobe that will take them well into their nineties and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already secured an outfit for his funeral.
She is constantly reading into everything the poor guy says and does. Even their hand-holding has not escaped her scrutiny. In one of our “sessions”, she confides, “Last week he held my hand during the whole movie. This week he only held it through the previews. I purposely didn’t get popcorn so our hands would be free. Then, right after the previews, he gets up and gets this huge vat of popcorn and a large drink. I definitely think he’s avoiding intimacy.”
I try to reassure her. “Maybe he just needs more fiber in his diet.”
In our next “session”, she wants to know why he only takes her out for lunch.
I say, in my cool, detached psychologist’s voice, “What’s wrong with lunch?”
She says, “Lunch is good...if you’re in third grade with a baloney sandwich and a juice box.” Her voice raises several octaves. (Reminiscent of the days when my room was a mess.) “Don’t I deserve dinner? Do you know how hard it is to look good in broad daylight? Besides, when am I going to wear all my new evening clothes?” I hear tissues fluffing out.
I try, “Why don’t you tell him how you feel?”
She whines, “If I complain, he may stop seeing me. He hasn’t even seen the green skirt with the pink sweater yet! No, I’m not saying a word until I’ve worn all my good outfits.”
I say, “But mom, he’s 72, how many more outfits do you think he has left? I would give it just two more pant suits and a dress and then I think you should speak your mind.”
I now find myself worrying constantly about my mother’s happiness with this man. Am I advising her correctly? What if this guy doesn’t like her hand bag one day and he breaks off their relationship? What if there’s another woman he takes to dinner, after taking Mom to lunch? And who’s he seeing for breakfast? Furthermore, what if this popcorn-munching-no-hand-holding maneuver is an indication that he’s really a cold fish? And more importantly,, what if Mom gets thinner than me?
This is all too much. I think I’m the one who’ll need counseling soon. I, too, am becoming an insecure neurotic wreck. Oh, well. My mother, myself.