becoming my mother
So how true is it that we become more like our parents as we grow older? Shockingly, it is very true for me.
As someone who never had the eye (or coordination skills) for handicrafts, I have been experimenting with different forms of handiwork, and surprisingly, the results have been quite acceptable.
My mother, from as far back as I can remember, was someone who would sit on the couch for hours on end doing a cross-stitch or knitting something for one of us. In the recent years before her death, she was crazy over making crystal jewellery. She would churn out necklaces, bracelets, rings and other little ornaments on a daily basis. She did them as if her life depended on it (though that wasn't the case). In the end, we had so many of her creations that we had to stow them away in a BIG plastic container in the storeroom.
Am I becoming my mother? I shudder to think that. My mother wasn't exactly the most appealing personality around, and her lonesome character was accompanied by spools of thread, needles and other handicraft accessories. The difference between my mother and me is almost akin to the vast distinction between a desert and a forest. Other than the fact that we're both female, that is.
Recently, I have taken to adorning my nails a shade of bright red I would formerly avoid like the plague. Red is not my colour. Or so I used to think. Until Hubs gave the approving nod and bought me my FIRST bottle of RED nail polish. He likes the seductive vixen it brings out in me, and I like how it makes me feel like a matured confident woman. On hindsight, no other nail colour has ever made me feel this way before.
This shade of red, I believe, would make my mother go green with envy as she is such a sucker for red/fuchsia nail colours. Although I must say that she was horridly lacking the expertise at painting her own nails. The colours were always splotchy because she didn't brush the strokes in one uniformed direction. She didn't have the patience to wait for it to dry before putting on the next coat. And worst of all, she never had the decency to protect her nails with a good base and top coat. No matter how many times I had screamed at her horridly painted nails, she would repeat the same mistakes again. She always made me wonder if she was just plain stubborn, or she just didn't want to take MY advice because I was her child.
In the end, I would always end up doing her manicures and pedicures in her favourite garish shades that I never foresaw I would one day adore on my own digits. *shudders*
Becoming a shadow of your parents' image can be spine-tingling once you realise how similar you actually have become. *melodramatic wail* Oh, the horror!
Well, at least I am still the only one in my family who is capable of tinkling a proper tune on the piano. Oh, and no one else can dance either. The rest of my family are quite tone-deaf or rhythm-confused. They can never quite catch the right beat or pitch. *sighs in self consolation*
As someone who never had the eye (or coordination skills) for handicrafts, I have been experimenting with different forms of handiwork, and surprisingly, the results have been quite acceptable.
My mother, from as far back as I can remember, was someone who would sit on the couch for hours on end doing a cross-stitch or knitting something for one of us. In the recent years before her death, she was crazy over making crystal jewellery. She would churn out necklaces, bracelets, rings and other little ornaments on a daily basis. She did them as if her life depended on it (though that wasn't the case). In the end, we had so many of her creations that we had to stow them away in a BIG plastic container in the storeroom.
Am I becoming my mother? I shudder to think that. My mother wasn't exactly the most appealing personality around, and her lonesome character was accompanied by spools of thread, needles and other handicraft accessories. The difference between my mother and me is almost akin to the vast distinction between a desert and a forest. Other than the fact that we're both female, that is.
Recently, I have taken to adorning my nails a shade of bright red I would formerly avoid like the plague. Red is not my colour. Or so I used to think. Until Hubs gave the approving nod and bought me my FIRST bottle of RED nail polish. He likes the seductive vixen it brings out in me, and I like how it makes me feel like a matured confident woman. On hindsight, no other nail colour has ever made me feel this way before.
This shade of red, I believe, would make my mother go green with envy as she is such a sucker for red/fuchsia nail colours. Although I must say that she was horridly lacking the expertise at painting her own nails. The colours were always splotchy because she didn't brush the strokes in one uniformed direction. She didn't have the patience to wait for it to dry before putting on the next coat. And worst of all, she never had the decency to protect her nails with a good base and top coat. No matter how many times I had screamed at her horridly painted nails, she would repeat the same mistakes again. She always made me wonder if she was just plain stubborn, or she just didn't want to take MY advice because I was her child.
In the end, I would always end up doing her manicures and pedicures in her favourite garish shades that I never foresaw I would one day adore on my own digits. *shudders*
Becoming a shadow of your parents' image can be spine-tingling once you realise how similar you actually have become. *melodramatic wail* Oh, the horror!
Well, at least I am still the only one in my family who is capable of tinkling a proper tune on the piano. Oh, and no one else can dance either. The rest of my family are quite tone-deaf or rhythm-confused. They can never quite catch the right beat or pitch. *sighs in self consolation*
Shelly breathed again at 6:46 PM
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