Summer break is in full swing, and if you have a college sweetheart (because this site is written by your grandma, she says hi and to call her once in awhile, you know, if you have time for an old lady) at some point you guys probably want to meet each other’s respective families. Well, lets be honest: You haven’t gotten laid since the semester ended and you two moved back to your respective hometowns, and you need to see your BF before that guy serving fries at Friendly’s starts looking like a viable option. So you bring your beau (I know you’re busy in New York with your fancy-schmancy job but I’m not going to be here forever, would it kill you to just call?) home to meet your family. And that can go one of two ways:
1) Scenario One: You live in a strict, Meet The Parents-type of household, where the two of you are forced to sleep in separate bedrooms and your dad makes hourly room sweeps at night to make sure you two aren’t doing anything untoward.
2) Scenario Two: You grew up in a totally relaxed, easy-going environment with no curfew and rules like “If you’re going to experiment, we’d rather you do it under our roof.
Unfortunately, fate often leaves it so that one of you has the first kind of parents, while the other is stuck with the second. Such was the case with my junior year college boyfriend. While his mother effectively banned me from their Brooklyn Brownstone after she caught me sitting on her son’s lap, my mother welcomed us with open arms and offer to “take my bed for the weekend!” Apparently, the bed I fooled around on in high school was now too small to accommodate the primal lust of two 20-year-olds and would require the entirety of a queen-size poster bed covered in cat hair.
In hindsight, my BF and I should have probably politely declined, because we had just started dating and as such, it was hard to go 3 hours without getting all up on each other’s junk. But again: 20-year-olds don’t have the best rational decision-making skills, so the weirdness of “There is a 99 percent chance we will be having sex in my mom’s bed,” was immediatly pushed aside in my mind for the second: “Great, time to lock the door and get down to biz-nass.”