Today is my mom’s 87th birthday. I’ve definitely inherited some of my tendencies from her. When she was just a blushing girl of, oh–maybe 80, she had a tiny crush on the handsome 30-ish guy who made photocopies for her at the copy shop. Her friend, another elderly lady, was appalled. “He’s probably married,” the friend said, as though she seriously thought my mom might act on it. That was ridiculous. My mom and I both know that you are allowed to have a life in your head that belongs to nobody else–it doesn’t even really belong to your earthly self, it’s separate from that. She said to her friend, “You know, I’m not dead yet.”
Happy birthday, Mom. I love you heaps, and I love your style.