Recently, I have been confronted with a startling truth. My mother was fabulous. But, by contrast, I’m more of a quirky, plain-Jane type. I stumbled across a picture of my mother in a red negligee on a distant Valentine’s Day. She wore fine jewelry and manicured nails. Her fiery red hair in perfect curls. My mother was a real head-turner. It was impossible not to turn around and stand a little more at attention when she entered the room. She was statuesque, not just physically (she was at least 5’10) but also in flair. A gracefull, if not dramatic, woman who would not be ignored.
Contrarily, I often find myself in the shadows and am quite surprised whenever someone remembers me. It’s always an odd sensation when someone tells me, Of course I remember you! I often think of myself as a ghost to the woman my mother was. She was a social butterfly. Very engaging, effervescent, the type of person to jump on life like it was a train headed for any place other than here. I’m much more cautious, much less social, certainly more practical.
They say you become more like your parents as you age. In that case, I’m becoming more of my dad than my mom. I’d rather be like my mom, in certain aspects. I’d like to be the kind of woman who never takes a step out of her front door without hair done, makeup done, clothes perfect. I’ve spent an absurd amount of years in a t-shirt and jeans, with hair pulled into a bun, and a massive collection of cosmetics put away under the sink.
Why can’t I be fabulous? Why do I always always take the road to invisibility? And why do I always think I’m being invisible when it’s really quite the opposite? Or so I’m told.
