resistance is futile: turning into my parents

My parents celebrated their fifty-third anniversary last summer. They married after knowing each other only 10 days in Tupelo, Mississippi.


Mom was a waitress in Murray, Kentucky when she waited on my dad in 1956. Ten days later, my mother wore a blue print dress much like the one Sissy Spacek wore in her wedding scene in the movie Coal Miner’s Daughter.


Reflecting on how long my parents stuck together, I discover how much I’m like them. After all, resistance is futile as the Borg says.  

Here are signs I’ve morphed a little into my mom:


*I limp softly and carry a big purse. My mom had knee surgeries, I had back surgeries, so we limp and lean on shopping carts. I also donated all my little purses to my daughters’ dress-up trunk in favor of a huge purse so I can carry – get this – yarn and crochet hooks.


*I sneeze loudly. I jumped out of my pants each time my mom sneezed when I was little. Now when I sneeze, my girls yell, “BLESS YOU!”


*When I need a stress release, I indulge in retail therapy at Wal-Mart. Maybe it’s the bright lights and brand new yellow asterisks. Plus I never have to dress up to go there. When I look around, everyone else has a “come as you are” look too. There are more pajamas on Wal-Mart shoppers than a pre-teen slumber party.


*I confuse my family members’ names. I call my husband Honey, which sometimes comes out Holly. When I call Holly, I say April, and poor April gets the dog Fluffy.


And here are signs I’ve morphed a little into my dad:


*I look forward to a nap every day. You’d think my favorite time of the day would be reading, journaling, drawing or yarn work, but nope, it’s that bit of snooze time.


*While relaxing, I refuse to sit in nothing but my favorite easy chair, even though it’s old and torn (like Frasier‘s dad’s chair).


*I listen to blue grass music. I may not have been born a hick, but it’s in my blood.



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