I got a hipster haircut today from a barber named Jim. I adore him and I’ll never go anywhere else ever again, even if I ended up with a haircut that’s way too hip for my own good. And bangs. Good lord, do I have bangs.
I think I’ve finally reached a point where bangs don’t remind me of the awkward middle school version of myself (as opposed to the awkward very late 20’s version of myself). When I see myself with bangs, I think I look like my mom. And also my grandmother. And I’m okay with that. I realized a long time ago that I was going to turn into my mother one day. I just thought I would be older when it happened.
So in honor of Mothers’ Day coming up, and my mother, and my grandmother:
Ways in Which I Have Already Become My Mother Before I’ve Even Turned 30:
- I can never find my keys. Or my phone. Or my wallet. It’s a serious issue. You would think it could be solved by carrying a purse, or always putting these things in the same place when I get home. It doesn’t help. I give up. It’s simply genetic. My mom will never remember that her glasses are on top of her head, and I will always have to chant the mantra “phone, keys, wallet” before I leave anywhere. And odds are I’ll still forget one of the three items. The good news is, I now know you can board a domestic flight without any form of identification other than an Entertainment Weekly with your name on it.
- I can’t stop feeding people. Mind you, I don’t cook. Not if I can help it. But I have this crazy need to make sure anyone who comes over has a beverage in their hand and some food in front of them. If someone starts crying, I just want to make them a sandwich. Thanks to my mother, any time someone dies, I feel like I should make a casserole to take to their family. It’s just what you do. I am a firm believer in funeral potatoes.
- I have to read before I can go to sleep. I’m almost certain my mother falls asleep with a book on her chest every night. Actually, it’s probably her Kindle now. I read on my iPad. And I have nearly broken my nose with it by falling asleep reading. On more than one occasion.
- I have a casual relationship with time. That’s all I really want to say about that. (Don’t deny it, Mom - I remember sitting outside the school waiting to be picked up. And also, I wouldn’t have been any better at it if I was the one driving.)
- I eat mayonnaise on artichokes. I know, it’s gross. I wasn’t even going to write that one down, because I know it’s gross. But it’s also delicious, and it’s my mom’s fault that I even know that.
- I can’t help taking in strays. My dog was found in an alley behind a shoe store where my mother was shopping. She obviously brought him home and I obviously wanted to keep him and Adam is a saint for letting it happen. There is usually a foster child or two staying at my parents’ house. When I lived in Morocco, I hosted over 40 couch surfers one month. It was often crazy and always hilarious and I just can’t help it - I like making sure people have a place to crash.
- I can’t say no. It’s a serious problem. My entire childhood was spent watching my mom say yes to anything anyone ever asked her to do. She was making costumes and baking cookies and driving kids all over town. And now I find that I have this irrepressible urge to be helpful when anyone asks me to do something. Even if I gripe and complain about it later (which I will) my gut reaction is to say yes. This might also be a side effect of too many improv classes, in which you are taught to always say “yes, and.”
- My hair is turning grey, and I’m not nearly old enough for that. Okay, I’m the only one who can see the grey hairs, but I know they’re real. My mom says she was grey by the time she was 30 or so, which means I have to keep dyeing my hair forever because I just don’t want to know. The good news is, my mom used to tell me that I had caused her grey hairs, and I now know that was a complete fabrication. It turns out not having children does not keep you from aging.
So there it is. I am my mother. And it didn’t even take that long. I suppose it was inevitable. Since the age of 15 or so, I haven’t even been worried about it. I knew it was coming. I’ve never seen the point in getting anxious over it. The women who do that always remind me of a Cathy cartoon. Who does that? People with horrible moms, I guess. Mine’s a good one. And maybe that’s why I don’t mind. (Thanks, Mom.)