Men suck. You should get one.

“Isn’t it nice when you don’t have to worry about men,” my mother said, head thrown back, lounging in my sister’s hot tub, bubbles catching on her gold hoop earrings.

By men, she means my father. He’s been sick for 30 years, since his first heart attack at 41. Five years after that, he had a stroke. He was diagnosed with diabetes when I was six, and now is missing three toes. (“Look at all I’ve been through,” my father likes to say. “And I’ve only lost three toes.”)

Mom spends most of her time taking care of him. She, on the other hand, is a hearty 72 who dyes her hair bright red. She recently added blond streaks. Last year, she had an eye job. She looks good.

Suddenly, she lifts her head and looks at me.

“Have you met anyone in D.C.?”

I ignore the question. She's asked it a bazillion times before, and she's never happy with the answer.

We’ve gathered for a girls’ weekend at my sister’s house.  Four sisters, two nieces, three family friends, and my mom are here. No one is allowed to bring a man.

We are all hanging out in bathing suits around my sister’s pool. Everyone has a cocktail, a pointed party hat, and a lot on her mind.

“It is so nice to be away,” said my sister Tammie.

I ask her about her husband and she rolls her eyes.

Tammie’s husband is 49. He’s had two hips replaced. They’ve been struggling financially after an injury in May kept him off the job. He complains of random dizzy spells. He’s refusing to cut his hair and has started wearing it in a limp, greasy, grey ponytail.  Sometimes he uses a walker with tennis balls on the feet. He has sleep apnea and has to wear a breathing machine to bed. And he’s not nearly as sexy as the previous sentences would lead you to believe.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.”

“How are you?” she asks.

I tell her.

“Oh, that’s right. You’re getting your teaching degree and stuff.”

I do not correct her. There are eight children in my family – which is blessing and a curse. On one hand, no one ever pays attention to what you are doing with your life. But on the other hand, no one ever pays attention to what you are doing with your life.

And then, there it is.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

I let the question hang in the air.

I can’t decide if my family is so concerned about my love life because they are tired of watching me loll about in selfish splendor while they remain chained to husbands who break down like so many 1972 Pintos. Or if they think of my singlehood as a wretched deformity -- as if I’m some patchy-haired product of inbreeding who lives in a dark attic and talks to myself in a secret language.

But I do know one thing -- I've never had to enact a no man rule. Men are always welcome on my side of the hot tub.