One answer to many questions

It would neither be fair nor accurate to describe my parents as strict. They were flexible. And often, they would recant punishments. But these punishments were assigned in anger and not rational. For example, my sister, Tracey, had her long hair cut very short without permission. My parents reacted as though she got a full-body tattoo.

“You’re grounded!” Daddy shouted.

“For how long?” She asked tearfully, already regretting the hair cut in the first place.

“Until it grows out!”

The next day, he admitted he may have reacted in haste.

But there were certain rules and modes of behavior for which there was zero tolerance. No mood or mitigating circumstances could justify or even explain breaking or indulging in these: “Sir and Ma’am,” and a respectful tone when speaking to an adult, table manners, appropriate dress, and curfew. Midnight did not mean 12:08.

I can still see my father in his chair pretending to read a newspaper. He was not waiting up for me. He just couldn’t sleep and hadn’t had a chance to catch up on the news that day. Rule No. 1 prohibited me from pointing out the paper was upside down.

Aside from adherence to the dictates of our faith, there was one sin we did not commit unless we wanted the lectures, the restrictions and the extra chores. To commit this transgression was far and above unseemly or unsuitable. It was downright unacceptable and would be met with swift and certain consequences.

That rule was, “Mind your own business.” Do not ask questions of a personal nature, even to those you know well. If he or she wants you to know, the information will be offered.

Mr. and Mrs. Crisan may have gone a little far in what they deemed personal. I never knew what our house payments were or how much money my father made. To this day, I would not know how old my mother was if, as a child, I hadn’t sneaked into her purse to look at her license. That was a terrible violation. But she was just so weird about it I had to know.

So, maybe my feelings on this subject are a product of my upbringing. But my reaction to a question of an intimate nature, depending on how intimate and my relationship to the person, ranges from irritation to indignation. And sometimes my answers are most unpleasant, they leave me filled with remorse.

Personally, I do not mind telling people my age. I am 45: full-grown with a lifetime of experiences. And those who would ask me could probably benefit from the wisdom my peers and I have to offer. This is information I volunteer freely…unless someone asks.

When asked, “Have you had any work done,” I used to answer, “Just on my personality, so I could tolerate questions like that.” Clearly, I am no example to follow.

And it still, at the age of 45, shocks and offends me when people inquire as to things beyond the border between personal and violating and could even be painful.

“When are you two getting married?” “What happened to your…(any part of the body left with a scar or any visible sign),” and my personal favorite, “Why don’t you have any children of your own?”

This is not painful to me personally, But the reactions range from disbelief and pity to expressions of horror as though I had the strength of Joan of Arc and was masking my pain. Or, I was some mutant monster set loose on the world to change its basic order. But my answer is more disconcerting to those who ask it than it is to me.

I never wanted any.

Maybe I am biologically deficient in some way. Maybe I am selfish. Or it might have something to do with the fact that both of my sisters were working single mothers, and so much of my youth was spent taking care of their children that my maternal needs were met before I reached adulthood. Perhaps I married a man with two kids I love so much that my emotional life is almost entirely dependent on their behavior, environment, and general well being that to have another would mean mothering from a mental institution.

I have given many answers to this question from, “I do. I just don’t like to talk about them,” to the fabrication of some horrible disease that would shut down the conversation. I also hoped it would deter the inquirer from asking the same question in the future of women whose answers were far different than my own.

What a tremendous amount of time I have wasted. What an unnecessary amount of embarrassment, shame or anger I have caused others and exasperation to myself. Because one answer alone would have minimized all the consequences above and provided no alternative but to change the subject.

As I have often pointed out, mine is not to suggest or advise. And no guarantee is made that what has worked for me will be equally satisfying for years. But this has been my response in awkward situations for over a decade and has a nearly 100 percent success rate.

But, should you choose to answer in the same or similar manner, the tone is crucial. There can be no judgement or even obvious annoyance. The only acceptable accompanying emotion is slight surprised to what is simply an observation.

“Wow. That’s a personal question.”