intervention.

11 Aug

I’ve heard of interventions orchestrated to urge someone to seek professional help to overcome addiction, an eating disorder or a similarly traumatic event.  But an intervention staged to put pressure on someone to step up his or her dating game?  That’s new to me.  But at this stage in my seemingly endless dating trajectory, I have come to expect the unexpected.  Here’s how it went down…

A couple weeks ago, the kids of the family (amongst whom I count myself) piled into the car and headed to Fashion Island for dessert.  After filling our bellies with the likes of Rocky Road and Vanilla Swiss Almond and trolling around the open-air mall for a couple hours, we decided to call it a night.  As we walked back to the car, my cell phone rang – it was my uncle.  He, too, wanted ice cream and was headed down to Fashion Island in search of it (and us).

Turned out the ice cream craving was a cover.  When my uncle showed up at Fashion Island, he did so flanked by my dad and my aunt.  I should have known something was up – my dad is not an ice cream person.

Moments later, my uncle and all the kids (save me) headed back in the direction of Haagen Dazs.  My dad and aunt had distracted me with talk of the new culinary additions to the mall.  When I noticed that we had been left behind, I insisted that we follow the rest of the group so as not to lose them.  My dad and aunt had plans of their own.  They escorted me in a different direction – away from Haagen Dazs and the sister and cousins that often serve as my reinforcements.

Ready…set…INTERVENTION.  As is the case with most interventions (so I’ve heard), voices were raised, tears were shed, expletives were used (mostly by me).  They wanted to know why I wasn’t open to guys living outside of California.  They wanted to know what I envision in a future boyfriend and husband.  They wanted to know why I didn’t come to them with boy-related problems.  They wanted to be more involved.  Funny thing…all I wanted was for them to leave me alone.

After all was said and done (and we had circled past Forever 21 for the seventh time), the intervention proved successful in at least one regard – it reminded me that my family (intrusive though they may be) is always on my side.  I may not share my innermost feelings with them (I’m not good at sharing in that way).  I may resist future interventions.  But if and when I do need a hand to hold or a shoulder to cry on, I know I can count on them.

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