Some Things Don’t Translate Well.
At lunch with some colleagues last week, one was sharing the story of her recent fairytale wedding. She and her now-husband met while crossing the street because he commented on how her cool orange shoes put his pedestrian shoes to shame. Turned out they were headed to the same café. Coffee turned into dinner, dinner turned into drinks, drinks turned into dating, and dating turned into a beautiful fall wedding followed by moving from the US to Beijing together. The photos were stunning. Her smile as she talked about him glistened almost as much as her beautiful diamond rings. It was true love in the most sincere, precious form.
Then another coworker turned to me and asked, “what about you? You have boyfriend?”
“Oh, me? Oh I’m going to die alone, so,” I replied definitively with no hesitation.
Guys. I cannot, for the life of me, describe with words the look she gave me. It was that of concern, remorse, shock, speechlessness, and a little bit of disgust.
I felt awful. And quickly made a flailing motion with my arms resembling windshield wipers going in opposite directions in an attempt to erase what had just happened.
“Oh no no, I mean. I’m not like, planning on dying alone,” I said in attempt to console her.
She reached her arm out toward mine on the table as a gesture of offering her sympathy.
“No. It’s just a stupid joke in the states. No really. I’m not going to die alone. I’m not planning on it, at least.”
I couldn’t just let it go. Talk about needing ⌘Z in real life.
There was that look again.
“No, she’s not going to die alone! It’s just a funny thing girls say in the states!” the bride said as she came to my rescue.
“Oh. What? Yeah! You too pretty to die alone!” she said with a nervous chuckle.
“Well aw shucks, that’s not true but I’ll take it. Yeah, no. I don’t plan on dying alone.”
Then the bride came to my rescue again and quickly changed the subject.
Spinsterhood, here I come.
