The World's First Manned Flying Desk Set: A Diatribe (of sorts) in Three Acts

Act I. The Grandmother
Scene: LaLa and Jeremiah's Wedding Luncheon. I'm sitting where I belong--the siblings table--when a woman sits down next to me who does not belong there. She's Sherlene, Jeremiah's grandmother. I greet her, then turn my attention to Marzipan, who is sitting on my left and making the difficult decision between chicken parmesan and stuffed shells. That crisis resovled, I turn to my water glass and find myself cornered by the Grandmother. We exchange pleasantries, and then she pulls out the big guns: her grandsons, several of whom are still (surprisingly) single. There's Sean, who's going to business school. Nathan, who just got off his mission, but he's so mature. (Yeah right, lady.) The catch: all of these boys are outdoorsmen who need high-energy women in their lives. Oh, and did I mention they look nothing like my comparably handsome brother-in-law?

Act II. Moonlighting on the Palace Steps
"So I told him, every girl is a princess and she needs to be treated like one," my (former) roommate explains as she tells me about the boy she's dating. I listen attentively, as I always do--with one ear on the conversation and one brain cell trying to figure out how I can someday be the one telling the story. And another brain cell beating the first brain cell senseless, reminding it that I'm not interested. I'm happy. I like teaching, research, grad school. To hell with men. Off with their heads. And all that good stuff.
And then I come home and Cinderella and I list of our top five turn-on/turn-offs. (Kind of like the clapper.)

Act III. Forthcoming and Fortnightly
This weekend is LaLa and Jeremiah's open house. I'm supposed to go and smile and interact with people I've never met and never wanted to meet. The Grandmother will be there, this time with the Grandsons in tow, not just verbal descriptions. And somewhere between Act I and Act II, I've spent more time than I'd like to admit telling people--home ward, student ward, classmates, professors, relatives--that I'm single. Single, single, single, and thank you for asking. I'm getting tired. You know how when you write a word over and over again or look at it too long, you can't tell if it's spelled correctly? Well, I've said "I'm single" so many times, that I'm starting to wonder if that's the right answer. So here's my solution: I'm going to pay a guy to date me in name only. I'd prefer that he not be at BYU or live in Utah for that matter, but that won't necessarily be a deal breaker. I've consulted my finances and, provided that I cut out all late night runs to Wendy's, I figure I can pay him about $37.50 fortnightly. And then, this weekend, when the Grandmother attacks, I'll be ready.