This is the time of year when many people get to experience the joy or private hell of their partner’s relatives. I always get to laugh at other people and their nightmare in-laws, as they quietly prepare for another coma-inducing holiday dinner or buttock-clenchingly annoying family get-together. Partly this is because I got lucky with high-quality in-laws, but in any case, they’re thousands of miles away, so how hard can it be for me?
You can learn a lot about your future spouse by watching their interaction with their family. If they allow themselves to be treated like shit then you’d better run a mile, because once you’re together you’ll be expected to put up with endless shit as well. In the end, though, no-one chooses their relatives, so if she’s burdened with a deadbeat sister with pigshit-thick children, a dull, flatulent father and an insane whiny mother, it’s not her fault (although you should watch the genes – that DNA is coming out in your kids someday).
What you really can learn a lot from, however, is her choice in friends. They aren’t relatives, so there’s zero excuse for continuing to hang around with irritating wankers once they are revealed as such. Sure, if you meet after college there may be some leftovers who seemed like fun at the time but never moved on. People showing up in the early hours, however, stoned and looking for a ride home, is nowhere near as hilarious when you’re getting up early for work. Especially when they’re the kind of “friends” you only see when they need something, and never hear from otherwise. If you are of the quite reasonable opinion that they should “fuck off and never come back” it really helps if your better half sees it the same way.
Unfortunately the male of the species is programmed to overlook such important considerations; the “good judgment” portion of the frontal cortex is rendered inoperative by the presence of what is known in the medical profession as “some nice boobs”. It doesn’t matter if she’s hanging around enjoying the company of the kind of left-wing, limp-wristed, weasel-brained losers that you’d feel more at home scraping off the bottom of your shoe, suddenly it doesn’t matter because she’s got a really nice rack. So you try and ignore them, and with the benefit of “shag-hopefulness” you can manage it for a while.
Trouble is unlikely to come in the form of her female friends, however. In my experience they want her to be happy, so if you do a good job of that they’ll love you, or at least tolerate you a bit. Your nemesis will be the “close male friend”. He’s been her friend for a long time and they have lots of in-jokes, deep personal discussions and together time. He may have wanted to shag her when they met but he was too ugly, and now he’s entered the “friend zone”, where he’s not seen as a threat by her, but is utterly neutered in terms of his personal pursuit of her girly parts. Frustrated by this his only recourse is to block any new male suitor who comes along, clinging to her like a parasite, with no other mission than to leave you cock-blocked.
We’ve all met this weaselly little arse-bag. He comes in many forms, but is always an ugly and failed suitor who was too gutless to make a play himself, but who’s now attached himself like a parasite to prevent you boxing off with her. I remember a girl at University. Well, when I say “remember”, I don’t actually remember her name, or anything like that. I just remember that she had huge breasts, especially in proportion to her height. I’m not a “massive tits” man as a rule, but I won’t turn them down either. I even managed to get my drunken mate Darren to effectively decoy her girlfriend while I moved in, which was some feat since he was normally shit-faced and covered in puke by that stage of the evening. Well, it turned out she had one of these male friends, who I met later. He wore crappy plaid shirts, had coke-bottle glasses and no shoulders. He had all the personality of a dead halibut, and for some reason she thought he was great. I could see from a mile away that he was using his “I’m no threat” act to get close to her boobs, but it was not in me to pander to his weaselly ways. The bloke was a cunt, pure and simple.
The moral of the story is that it doesn’t matter whether you can get past the weasel or not; sooner or later she’s going to surround herself with similar losers and dickheads. Better to face up to the fact that you’re fundamentally incompatible now. Well, when I say “now”, I mean “in the morning”. And as you let yourself quietly out of her flat, if you happen to meet the weasel, do everyone a favor and kick his arse. Mankind will thank you.