The other day my aunt added my on Facebook. Due to etiquette that is universally acknowledged and agreed to be at least as important as, say, the international diplomacy required to avoid nuclear war, I accepted her friend request.
Have you seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding? Being Greek, even just a little bit (my paternal grandfather is Greek Cypriot), is like living in that film. Everyone knows everyone, if you don't eat meat you are regarded with suspicion and worry (and I hate lamb), and all your cousins are named Nick and Diane.
Except that you cannot really remember all your cousins (I have 22 first cousins and many many many second) so when someone Greek adds you on the Gospel according to Facebook you have no idea whether they are actually a blood relative or just someone you are expected to know and submit to when they want to pinch your face and tell you how much you look like your Yaya (who is, at the latest estimation, 90, and has no teeth left).
Apparently, adding one aunt has opened a floodgate for people who I may or may not have met at Uncle Seraphee's sixtieth birthday, or Iaggi's wedding, which I didn't understand because it was conducted in Crazy (i.e. Greek) and I was also only six at the time and being forced to stand still for hours and wear a white dress with pink bows.
It is a testament to their tenacity that they are encroaching on my life when most of them live four hours' flight away.
Let's pretend I now say something begrudging about loving them all anyway.
I am, in fact, sure that being terrified of the familial advance and their consequent access to photos of me in situations that surely compromise my Good Greek Girl ticklist is far more appropriate.