It's inevitable that we all will turn in to our parents someday. As I get older, I see my mother in my reflection more and more often. Luckily, I can call her up and yell at her about this.
I have my mother's face (which is always a bit startling when I go to the hairdresser and she slicks my hair back, and it's Mom squinting in the mirror back at me) and my mother's shape. This is not all bad - my mother's family was not a small-chested lot, and my curves have served me well over the years. That's right, I'm not above using a low-cut top to get a free sample from the stock boy at the grocery store. And the women in Mom's family all have great legs. Honestly, my mother is in her sixties and could still get hired as a Rockette with her gams. (Her lack of tap-dancing abilities would, however, immediately get her fired. I inherited that, too.)
Not to say that Dad didn't have his genetic input. I'm thankful for his blond hair (which, if I follow his lead, will stay blond until my 44th birthday, on which date I should expect to wake up to a full head of white.) But Dad's side isn't all curly blond goodness. It was the Longo side that most likely gave my my heart condition that required surgery, and my sensitive skin - to the point where I can't use certain toilet papers because I get a rash - is all courtesy of Dad. But I'm not here to beat up on Dad. I'm focusing on Mom.
My folly, you see, was to grumble as my transformation into my mother was happening. I should have welcomed the varicose veins and bunions. Because the other day, as I was pulling on a pair of pantyhose and they got stuck in the crease of my hip, I saw them: my grandmother's saddle bags had emerged on my butt. Honestly, I could ride a horse on these things.
Sure, my Grandma Annie is gone, and for the briefest of moments it was nice to see something that reminded me of her, but I wasn't expecting that little bit of nostalgia to pop up on my thighs.
I called my mother to tell her the news. "Well, dear, I guess I should warn you now," she sighed. "Grandma sprouted a moustache at 50."
Hey, fate is fate, and you can't fight your family tree. I'm asking Jason for a moustache trimmer for Christmas.
*Check back tomorrow for Halloween photos - Jason and I are dressing up as JFK and Marilyn Monroe!
I have my mother's face (which is always a bit startling when I go to the hairdresser and she slicks my hair back, and it's Mom squinting in the mirror back at me) and my mother's shape. This is not all bad - my mother's family was not a small-chested lot, and my curves have served me well over the years. That's right, I'm not above using a low-cut top to get a free sample from the stock boy at the grocery store. And the women in Mom's family all have great legs. Honestly, my mother is in her sixties and could still get hired as a Rockette with her gams. (Her lack of tap-dancing abilities would, however, immediately get her fired. I inherited that, too.)
Not to say that Dad didn't have his genetic input. I'm thankful for his blond hair (which, if I follow his lead, will stay blond until my 44th birthday, on which date I should expect to wake up to a full head of white.) But Dad's side isn't all curly blond goodness. It was the Longo side that most likely gave my my heart condition that required surgery, and my sensitive skin - to the point where I can't use certain toilet papers because I get a rash - is all courtesy of Dad. But I'm not here to beat up on Dad. I'm focusing on Mom.
My folly, you see, was to grumble as my transformation into my mother was happening. I should have welcomed the varicose veins and bunions. Because the other day, as I was pulling on a pair of pantyhose and they got stuck in the crease of my hip, I saw them: my grandmother's saddle bags had emerged on my butt. Honestly, I could ride a horse on these things.
Sure, my Grandma Annie is gone, and for the briefest of moments it was nice to see something that reminded me of her, but I wasn't expecting that little bit of nostalgia to pop up on my thighs.
I called my mother to tell her the news. "Well, dear, I guess I should warn you now," she sighed. "Grandma sprouted a moustache at 50."
Hey, fate is fate, and you can't fight your family tree. I'm asking Jason for a moustache trimmer for Christmas.
*Check back tomorrow for Halloween photos - Jason and I are dressing up as JFK and Marilyn Monroe!
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