Do we really turn into our mothers?
After using a fahncy, marble encased bathroom stall at Bloomingdale’s this afternoon, I met my mother at the row of sinks. Incidentally, for all of her outrageousness, she’s more of a rule-follower than I am and she opted for a regular stall, whereas I have no qualms about using the one intended for the wheelchair bound.
That’s actually not entirely true: I use the handicap stall only when I’m with The Gaydi Project, an antagonistic way to honor a good friend of hers who is so rigorous in his moral code, that he would never set foot in one because it just isn’t right! For whatever reason, it makes me feel good to know I’m doing something of which he’d disapprove. (And I really like like the guy. Figure that one out, Internets.) So today, I parked my ass on the toilet in an extravagant room the size of my kitchen and sent good thoughts to my favorite über-human, Jeff C.
But back to that row of sinks.
There we found each other again—my mother, my self—and while washing our hands, The Gaydi Project said to me, “I really do hope I’m past that point in my life where I accidentally tuck my skirt into my underwear after going to the bathroom.”
“That would be a good thing,” I said.
“Just promise you’ll let me know if I do that?” She asked.
“Yeah…I’ll start walking a few paces behind you from now on.”
I took a step back from the sink to assess the situation—just in case—and do you know? Her long, black-and-white batik skirt was tucked into her panties so perfectly, so symmetrically, that it created a bustle more beautiful than the one on my over-priced wedding dress. I almost wanted to let her go about her day like that. It looked so lovely, it was nearly trend-setting. But I’m a good daughter (finally) and I’d just made her a promise; truly, I’m nothing if I don’t keep my promises to the woman who once passed me through her cervix. So I un-fluffed the fluff, we had a solid laugh at her expense and headed out the door.