I am the proud
mother of a twenty-year-old daughter. That’s right. According to the logical
psyche of our waiter at lunch, I had a child at the age of four. Now throughout
my life, rather, our lives—there being in all reality three of us—my sisters
and I have endured countless, endless, repetitive inquiries and remarks about
our supposed relationships. Everything from, “Oh my gosh, You must be sisters. You two look exactly alike!” to “I didn’t know you
two were twins!” and “How am I supposed to tell you apart?” (The last was an
actual inquiry from a neighbor who hired my elder sister and I to do
housecleaning for her.)
I admit, my sisters and I resemble each other. How could we not. In fact, to give even more credit to the average citizen, in baby pictures and early childhood videos we often argue about whose image is being displayed. There are small tricks we all use—my elder sister has a birthmark on her right cheek roughly the size and shape of a dime; my younger sister is four years my junior and can usually be distinguished as the smallest child visible; I sport a sprawling scar on the back of my left hand, courtesy of the family clothes iron. But to be entirely fair, yes, we look alike. Until I reached college we all had long dark hair—and by long, dark hair I mean we all could sit on our hair when it was down and I, more often than the others, frequently and fiercely defended that my hair was brown, not black. We all have brown eyes, olive skin, shallow eye sockets, no nose bridge to speak of, invisibly short eyelashes, and my father’s squat nose.
However, (ah the beauty of that ‘however’!), that does not excuse the everyday acquaintance to assume, imply, or further impose on me a daughter of impossible age. But now for the incident in view.
My younger sister and I realized we had not hung out together much in a decent stretch of time and so decided to spend an afternoon eating at the local Olive Garden and then playing a few games together. The meal was quite good and we had no complaints for our waiter whose service was in nearly all ways flawless. He introduced the wine list; we declined. He flirted professionally with my sister; she declined. He almost earned a good tip, but then I declined.
After an hour of soup, salad, and sisterly conversation, I excused myself to the ladies’ room and returned five minutes later to my sister practically in stitches. “Did you know you’re my mother?”
“I don’t remember that,” I said.
I admit, my sisters and I resemble each other. How could we not. In fact, to give even more credit to the average citizen, in baby pictures and early childhood videos we often argue about whose image is being displayed. There are small tricks we all use—my elder sister has a birthmark on her right cheek roughly the size and shape of a dime; my younger sister is four years my junior and can usually be distinguished as the smallest child visible; I sport a sprawling scar on the back of my left hand, courtesy of the family clothes iron. But to be entirely fair, yes, we look alike. Until I reached college we all had long dark hair—and by long, dark hair I mean we all could sit on our hair when it was down and I, more often than the others, frequently and fiercely defended that my hair was brown, not black. We all have brown eyes, olive skin, shallow eye sockets, no nose bridge to speak of, invisibly short eyelashes, and my father’s squat nose.
However, (ah the beauty of that ‘however’!), that does not excuse the everyday acquaintance to assume, imply, or further impose on me a daughter of impossible age. But now for the incident in view.
My younger sister and I realized we had not hung out together much in a decent stretch of time and so decided to spend an afternoon eating at the local Olive Garden and then playing a few games together. The meal was quite good and we had no complaints for our waiter whose service was in nearly all ways flawless. He introduced the wine list; we declined. He flirted professionally with my sister; she declined. He almost earned a good tip, but then I declined.
After an hour of soup, salad, and sisterly conversation, I excused myself to the ladies’ room and returned five minutes later to my sister practically in stitches. “Did you know you’re my mother?”
“I don’t remember that,” I said.
“Yup!” she stated. The waiter, in my absence, cleared some of the plates and politely asked my sister, “Does your mother want more soup?”
Her innocent reply?
“Um, if she calls, I’ll ask, thanks.”
Good times! I still laugh so hard about this experience!
ReplyDelete