The alarm clock goes off, blasting its music, and I rise with a jolt, as if I've come to from my worst nightmare. I look around my room. It's still dark, though the drawn blinds are leaking in slivers of light from the outside. My dog Sophia is laid out on the bed, head cocked slightly, ready for me to reveal all the cosmic secrets of the universe. I look at the clock; it's 5:20 A.M., and the music's still blaring:

If it's true this pathetic clown'll keep hanging around that's if you don't mind
I don't mi-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi-yind, i don't mi-yi-yi-yi-yi-yi-yind

My hand slams down on the alarm clock, and I fall back into bed. Sophia approaches and gives me a wet one across the face. Why the hell did I shoot up from the bed like that? Was I dreaming about something, someone? I don't remember anything. I stare at the ceiling, thinking mirrored tile over the bed would be nice. Wait, it's not 1979. Never mind.

Since I'm wide awake and it's early I may as well go to the gym. The calories aren't going to burn away just laying here. I go into the bathroom and do a quick survey in the mirror: Bags under the eyes, no good. Burning the candle at both ends is catching up with me. I better look into that Origins puffery cream Bernadette told me about. I look at the sideburns. White hairs. Great, just what I need. Why wasn't I consulted about this? I'm too young for this shit. No grey, just straight on through to white. I'm sure I'll look like Sean Connery in no time. Oh well. It's just like my father used to say: We're all immortals, but only for a limited time.

And that's when it hits me. A shock runs down my spine. I know why I'm like this - I am having dinner with my parents this evening.

Don't get me wrong, I genuinely like my parents. I never had any problems with them growing up. They gave me everything I would have needed - they didn't spoil me - but they armed me with love, support, a roof over my head and nice clothes to wear. The general stuff. Okay, maybe a little more than that. I'll never understand kids who go through life resenting their parents. What did they do to you? They loved you, raised you, paid an assload of money in order for you to live, didn't abandon you, so what's the problem? It was a real eye-opener freshman year of college living in the dorms, when I would hear people talk about their relationship with their folks, and how many were filled with rage, spite, and resentment. Grow the fuck up. They are not the root of your problems.

Of late - the last four or so months - my parents have been a thorn in my side because it's their opinion the time for me to settle down, find a wife, and get married has arrived. Here's what you've got to understand: My parents are very traditional and old school in the values department. My mother was brought up by first generation Greeks who came to the States before starting a family, and they brought a lot of old world ideals with them: A girl grows into womanhood being virtuous, gets married, bears her husband's children, raises them, gets them married off, and becomes a grandmother. That's what she was raised to do. My father is a Scottish-something derivative of the British empire, and was brought up learning that the wife is the bad cop in disciplining the children, but the husband steps in when the gravity of the situation requires it. Dad doesn't say much, but when he does it's pretty important. So yeah, there's a generation and cultural gap at work here.

It's probably not even my dad's opinion that now is the time to start wife-hunting; I think he likes vicariously living through my exploits. Mom is definitely applying the pressure, because the clock is ticking. She's married off my brother and sister, and has two grandchildren. Now I remain, and she wants to see me married and settled before her number is up. It turns out she's immortal for a limited time as well. The thought saddens me, and rather than dwell on my parents' inevitable date with the reaper I throw my crap into the gym bag and hit the door.

At the gym I go through a pretty mundane routine that I perform in zombie-like fashion, now fully feeling the dread of having to sit through dinner listening to the folks chastise me for having not found that perfect someone. I hit the elipsis machine for 15 minutes as a cool down before I call it a session. Tip: If you want to pass the time while stuck on the machine, pick one in the back row directly behind a woman with a nice ass - it gives you something to focus on when the TVs showing SportsCenter start looping the footage.

Lost in the Go Home Productions remix coming from my IPod and tunnel vision firmly locked on the ass of the 30-something woman in front of me, I don't even realize that somebody is tapping me on the shoulder. When I hear an "excuse me," I come to and pull off the headphones.
"Sorry, my music was up really high," I lie.

"Are you gonna be on the machine much longer?" the redhead asks. She's likely in her late 20s-early 30s, stands about five-and-a-half feet tall, and is on the verge of losing the battle with her body fat.

Normally I like talking to redheads, chatting them up, giving chase. There's something inexplicably wild about reds, a devil-may-care attitude simmering under their surface. But the gym is the wrong place entirely to pick up on a woman. It's the height of pretense. Never will a woman be more aware of her body, her beauty, how appealing or unwanted she is, as at the gym. Because of that the odds of being successful are skewed too far out of favor. Besides, with the white hair and the puffy bags under my eyes, I'm not exactly looking my best. I'm not feeling my "A" game.

Looking up and down the aisle of machines, I questionly mention "Uh, there are like five other machines not being used."

"Yeah," she begins, "but this is the one I always use. It's like my routine, and I don't want to break it. Same machine, watching the same TV up front, looking at the same people in front of me."

"Oh, so you also look at her -" and then stop myself. "Sorry, bad early-morning joke. Tell you what, if you go do another set of arm exercises I'll be done by the time you are. And then you won't have to break your routine. Sound good?"

She buys off on the suggestion and disappears, but not for long because when she returns I'm lost in a Velvet Revolver tune and still staring at the ass of the woman in front of me who hasn't yet left. She taps my shoulder again.

"Hey, what happened to our agreement?"

I look down at the machine and realize the program had stopped over two minutes ago but I kept going. "Sorry," lost track of the time.

She follows my gaze to the woman on the machine in front of me and back, and replies with a terse "Uh huh."

Work follows much in the same way, passing the hours like some third-person narrator in a setting to which I feel no connection. People coming, people going. And all I am consumed with is dinner, which is growing ever-closer. I don't understand why I am making mountains out of molehills. My parents live thirty minutes away, and though I don't see them but for special occasions and the odd dinner, I'm dreading having to sit through the questions, with Mom asking why haven't I tried this person or that person, and maybe my sister could help me out in setting up something, or maybe one of her friends, hmm? Ugh. I'm getting nauseous.

The silence is broken in the form of Melinda, my co-worker who comes in to remind me "how much fun" we are going to have at the Halloween party this weekend.

"Maybe we should go as a costumed couple. You know, Raggedy Ann and Andy, or He-Man and She-Ra."

I look at her, and though she's got the body to pull off She-Ra - a short She-Ra - I'm in no mood. "For fuck's sake, just go as whatever you were gonna be and I'll do the same. There's no couples costuming here. Get your mind off the couples thing," I say.

"Sheesh. Somebody didn't have their morning jug of coffee. I'll come back when the wrath of Reed has passed." She adds this with a wink just before she walks out so I know she's not put off by the remark. Brother.

I give her a minute to get back to her desk and then dial her. "I'm sorry," I begin, "I shouldn't have snapped at you. I have a lot on my mind and couples costuming is not the source of it."

"Awww, that's okay babe," she responds.

"You know, I'm thinking maybe the couples costume is not such a bad idea. I was thinking of going as a 70s porn star, complete with polyester, the Ron Jeremy mustache, hairy chest, and Officer Ponch sunglasses. Maybe you could go as a 70s-era porn floozie. I mean, you've got real boobs so you'd be a shoo-in, unless there's something you want to tell me."

"Reed, you never change," she says, and slams the phone down on the receiver. I can hear it from down the hall. I just chuckle and try to focus on work.

6 P.M. Go Time. Dinner reservations are at 6:30 at my parents' country club. Dinner is always at 6:30 at my parents' country club. I pull up just before 6:30 and spy their Jaguar in a corner spot. Well, at least there will be no waiting, I muse.

I walk inside and the same maitre'd who has been there for every dinner I've been served at the club in the last eight years greets me. "And how are you tonight?" I ask. He's never been better. He's never been better for eight years.

My parents have already been seated and I'm shown to their table. "There he is," begins my mom, as happy to see me as the first day I came into the world, I'm sure. My father stands and gives an approving nod.

"Hello, Mom. Dad," I say, and hug them both.

The formalities are quickly cleared during cocktails: The state of the job, the apartment, the dog, the car, and any other material they think I hold in similar high regard.

"Their special tonight is duck, with an orange glaze to it," my mom says, leaning across the table to point it out on the menu. "I think their fish is halibut."

"Duck, yes, well," I say, trying to feign her level of interest, knowing soon enough I'll be knee-deep in matchmaker talk.

We place our order, only to follow it with awkward silence. My mother isn't saying anything. Strange, she always has something to say to her children. Maybe she's deciding how to launch her marriage salvos.

My father perks up with a smile. "They've told me that they've bought some new and intriguing single malt scotches for after dinner. You'll have to recommend one for us to sample."

"Dad, you will always have me beat in sniffing out the best scotches out there. I learned it all from you. There's no getting anything past you in the scotch department." We both laugh. I feel like a fucking fish out of water.

"Well, if you'd concentrate on finding the right woman as much as you concentrate on living the high life, we'd have a party of four for dinner this evening," my mom begins.

"Bingo, here it comes," I mutter under my breath.

"Honey, are you dating anybody right now?" she asks.

"Yes."

"You are, that's great dear, that's great." She touches my arm for added flair. Then she gets a funny look on your face. "More than three of four dates here and there?"

"Oh, more than three or four? No, not so much," I reply.

"Reed, honey, you can't expect to find a suitable woman for yourself in only three or four dates, that's too little time. What can you be doing in only three or four dates?" She pauses. "On second thought don't answer that." I steal a glimpse of my father cracking a slight smile.

"Mom, I've told you this countless times before, pretty much since I've been 19: I am not looking for anybody permanent. I jump from ship to ship. I sample. I see what I like out there in a woman and then try to find that in somebody else, plus maybe and extra thing or two that makes this new girl better. It's like I'm always trying to improve upon the person until I find the right one."

"Yes, you have told me this since you've been 19, and that's my point. You are no longer 19. You are out of college. You are working in the field you received your training in. (I love how my mom refers to 'getting a degree,' it's so old school.) You've had your time to have your fun. You need to think about the future."

"The future?" I say. "The future is about having enough money and a firm footing in my work to be able to provide for a wife, wouldn't you say. I have neither of either. And I am not ready to settle down. I haven't found the right woman to make me feel that way."

"What about Katrina, she was a very nice woman," my mom offers. Of course she would like Katrina, the girl was from a Greek family. My parents were even friends with her parents. As far as my mom was concerned it was a match made in heaven. Katrina had some of the worst PMS of any woman I'd ever known. And when I showed her some article I'd read about how sex during PMS can relieve some of the symptoms, she freaked out. Sex would never be the same again.

"Katrina - she was like a year ago. That's so long ago, that's like I don't know how many women ago. Let's just call it a lot and leave it there."

"So this last one, you liked her?"

"Yeah, I like her. Very beautiful, very nice."

"And?"

"And there were problems. She's married. Was married. It's complicated. It would have never worked."

My mother frowns, looking me over. "And the one before that?"

"Too ditzy."

"And the one before that?"

"Got on my nerves after a few dates. Too vain about herself."

"And the one even before that?"

I had to think about this one for a moment because I'd lost track about who we were recounting. "Virginia" I utter. "She was just a fling."

"They ALL sound like flings," my mother huffs.

"I'm not looking for something permanent," I reiterate. Trying to be slick I change the subject. "Sharon was in town from D.C a few weeks back. She wanted me to say hello and wish you well."
"Oh, you should have brought her by, we could have had tea or something one afternoon. I always liked Sharon."

"Yes," my father pipes up, "Sharon was a very lovely girl."

I expected them to say that. My mother liked Sharon because she had this regal air about her and looked a bit like a Stepford wife. My mother is all about appearances, and somebody like Sharon walking around the country club with them would seem second nature, meant to be. My father liked Sharon because she looked like a Barbie doll, but with smaller boobs.

"If I had brought Sharon around you'd be subjecting her to the same things we are talking about now."

"But the two of you dated in college," my mother says. "You two were so cute."

"Yes, in college, and even then it was clear to see that it was not working out. We were two entirely different people. We weren't meant to work out. And now, years later, it still would be the same thing. People don't change, mom. You don't break up with somebody who didn't fit you like a glove and then years later fool yourself into thinking they were the one for you. You don't remember the sweetness in relationships. You remember the sour. Sharon and I are better off as friends."

Dinner arrived and we ate it mostly in silence. There is something about the club that locks it in time. It feels like the same people are always there, eating off the same china while the same lighted paintings adorn the same wallpapered walls. An eternity turns in this place and still nothing changes within these walls.

At one point my father leans over. "So, this woman of yours. Was she married when you met her?"

"Yes, but I didn't know it at the time."

"Didn't know it at the time? Was her husband with her when you met?"

"Dad! Let's not go down this path. It's nothing. It's over." Then I clam up.

Dinner is cleared and we try some highland single malt scotch varieties, but they're not that good. Too smoky, not refined enough. On the way out the maitre'd shakes my hand and says he looks forward to the next time I dine with them. I bet you'll still be here, I say to myself.

"Do take care of yourself dear," my mom says as I help her into the car. "And give Sophia a big hug for me. You should bring her by sometime. I love seeing her."

"And she you, she loves being spoiled by you," I cordially reply. My mom looks a little hurt, like I'm not taking her to heart. "Don't worry about me mom, you have a son and a daughter who turned out just fine. I'm not far behind."

"I just want what's best, you know that don't you?" she asks. I dutifully nod, and wave as they pull out of the restaurant lot and make their way back to their house. As I walk towards the valet, fishing for my ticket, I think I want what's best too, mom. What's best for me.