Matchmaker, Matchmaker . . .

At my future sister-in-law's wedding shower on Saturday, one of the ladies from the neighborhood I grew up in commented that it would be an eventful spring and summer indeed: between the wedding, my younger sister's graduation, my older sister having her third kid, and my brother returning home from his mission, my family has their hands full. And by "my family," I mean "my parents."

But they are not too busy, it seems, not to make observations about my love life.

As many of you may know, I have standing appointments with the chiropractor and with three piano students on Thursdays that require my presence in Centerville. So I stay at my parents' house every Thursday night. It's good entertainment and good company. And my mom is usually good for an insanely competitive game of Scrabble unless she has something else she needs to do.

Due to the scheduling of said appointments, I inevitably end up trying to swallow entire dinners whole in the ten minutes between arriving home from the chiropractor's and starting the first piano lesson of the night. But this past Thursday, I didn't even have time for that.

An hour and a half and a severely growling stomach later, I settled down to eat a bowl of delicious soup when the doorbell rang. It was a security salesman. Despite noticing he was attractive and that he looked about my age, I gladly turned him over to my parents. I wanted my soup, and I didn't care about getting the house a security system; I had always felt safe there. Except when my older brother got angry when we were younger. And I'm pretty sure they don't make security systems that handle those eventualities.

Anyway, I finished my soup and went downstairs to relax. Ten minutes later, the phone rings. My mom requests I answer it, but then gives up on me running up the stairs when I know it doesn't take two of them to talk shop with a security salesman. In fact, it only takes one: my dad. He's the one who can ask about technicalities. So she answered it, took a message, and went back to talking with the salesman.

A few minutes later, I found myself deep in conversation with my parents. About how I'd foiled their plans to get me to come upstairs and flirt with the security salesman who, they had realized just prior to the phone call, was a returned missionary and oh-so-available. Tall, dark, handsome RM? Of course they thought he needed to meet their daughter.

And he did, briefly. I answered the door.

If I would have realized how fond my parents could become of a salesman in twenty minutes (he earned huge brownie points from my mother by taking off his shoes when he came into the house), I wouldn't have let my mom know he was there. Except my mom taught me to be polite to everyone, and I didn't want to be the person to shoot down the nice salesman. I just wanted my soup. And some bread. And some relaxation.

And I got to have them and keep my dignity too.