******This was originally published a year or two ago but my mom was just in town and I was reminded that my slow transformation into becoming her has picked up speed. Hence, the need for this to be republished.******
This is my future. Look at it. Is it a photo of a purse with faux fur on it? Yes, yes it is.
The point is this: I’m turning into my mother.
Don’t get my wrong, I
tolerate love my mother, so turning into her is isn’t a bad thing.
But so soon? So quickly?
I figured I’d be at least late 50s before the resemblences started creeping in. Apparently not.
I’ve been denying it for years, but it’s quickly becoming a realization I don’t think I can deny anymore. The transformation has begun!
<to be read in a loud voice with ominous music in the background.>
I know, I know, few more horrific words have ever been uttered. It’s what every young girl fears the most.
Well, that and the clap, but I guess since I dodged that bullet, I’m stuck with the other fear.
Whether it’s the lesser of two evils is something I’m not sure of, although I know one of them can be cured with penicillin.
It came on gradually (the transformation, not the clap). I think both ailments may come on gradually but the transformation into my mother didn’t involve itchiness or the urge to pee myself.
Either way, I noticed the changes slowly.
Uttering a cheesy phrase under my breath was the first sign.
Want an example? Well, you’re getting one.
Without even thinking, I yelled out “He B.D. Wong guy for the job!”
Is that joke hilarious? Of course it is, which is why I began cracking up immediately after I said it.
But then I looked around the room and saw the expressions I knew so well; the eye rolls, the moaning in irritation.
I know them because that’s my standard response to my mother’s jokes that aren’t really that punny. (Ha! Punny! I’m on a roll!)
Simple enough. I figured it was just one instance of bad joke-telling. If Seth McFarlane can do it, so can I.
But then it moved onto conspiracy theories. That’s when I started to notice I may need to seek help.
Was the government trying to take over my life by taxing me to death? Obviously, as evidenced by this year’s tax return.
Did my office have a secret stash of cookies my coworkers hide from me because they know I’d eat them if I knew about them? Probably.
But let’s face it; that’s probably a good idea on their part.
One thing I do know for sure, though, is that YES, all the kids really are on drugs these days. Every. Single. One. Of. Them.
As if these small tendencies creeping into my life weren’t enough, another symptom appeared that made it far more real. The humming started. That’s when I knew it was serious.
It was one thing to believe every kid over the age of 14 was a heroin junkee. (I blame “the MTV” and the video games.)
But it’s quite another to hum songs loudly in public. Worst of all? I found myself trying to hum the harmony.
Now it’s just snowballing. I find myself drawn to sparkly things that most people, and Lisa from 5 years ago, would have found gaudy. But now, a part of me thinks “That’s kind of pretty. Look at it sparkle.”
For some reason, my taste in glittery things has skyrocketed and there’s no way to stop it. Why would I buy a pair of plain glasses when I could get a pair with rhinestones blinged out on the sides?
I guess they say that acceptance is the first step. I’m not sure if I’m there yet, but I suppose I’m on the road to that destination, not paying attention and sideswiping vehicles as I go.
Maybe it’s not so bad.
After all, my mom isn’t that far away from the senior citizen discount, and I love saving money.
Plus, the sparkly tops and glittery glasses will make it easier for people to find me when I inevitably fall down or get lost on the street looking for my car.