At first glance (and all others following), I do not look like my mother. Regardless of the fact that she is not a natural blonde (already established in an earlier post), we did not look related when she was a brunette either. I am 5'6” (for anyone that hasn't seen me since my teens, shocking I’m sure), I’m going to be generous and say she is 5'2”. In the accompanying photo I am in flats and she is in at least 3 inch heels and I still have few inches on her. She is fair skinned with a God-given perfect, tiny nose; I am much darker, even with my summer tan mostly gone, and have the nose from my father’s side of the family. Unfortunately, I was not the recipient of my dad’s crystal blue eyes (would have been nice, but my brother got those), so my hazel eyes are closer to hers. She has great legs and walks in heels with no difficulty; mine are not my best feature and I am less than graceful in dress up shoes. I am long-waisted; all my additional height is located between my belt loops and my underwire; in this case I take the extra point. Some of our other parts are more similar, anatomy my brothers do not have, thanks for passing this gene on to your daughter. She would be described as petite and I spent most of my childhood waiting to be anything but. In the eighth grade when I ran for student council president I was 4'10” and 84 lbs., my slogan was "Good Things Come in Small Packages,” Of course, I won. I was tiny at 13 and through most of high school, which did not result in many (I meant to say, any) prom dates. I assumed my current stature in college; classic "late bloomer.” My mom always told me they bloom the brightest, not sure that's true, she is a little biased. Physically, our connection may not be a dead giveaway for mother and daughter, but hang out with us at a party and there is no question of our genetic bond.
Today’s topic came to the surface last night at an event we attended together; mostly her friends, well, almost entirely her friends. It was a "housewarming" for one of her "Sisters." In truth, my mom is an only child, but she has had the same 5 best friends in her life for the last 50 years (maybe more) and their bond is true sisterhood. Each of them is like another mom to me and as I get older, they feel like my friends too, thus my invitation to the party. Mother and daughter arrive (not together, in our own cars) dressed in similar black ensembles (given, most of the women were in black and we did have a prior phone consult), but we both accessorized with Venetian glass jewelry purchased from the same studio, in Venice (of course she got hers first and I purchased mine when I saw hers and had to have one). Sometimes our fashion "twin ship" occurs when I buy first and she copies, and just as often the other way around. The best way is when she buys for both of us, because that's what moms are for. Secretly, I knew she would be wearing hers tonight and although I had another choice in mind (been wearing the Venice necklace a lot lately) I enjoy the “look alike” moments.
My mother works a room like no one else I know. I am hardly a slouch in the social butterfly department, but I am a few innings away from her league. She makes a stop at every cluster, old friends and new, still making a point to introduce herself to the unfamiliar (they never stay that way for long). I follow suit, as I learned from the master; cover the crowd completely, easier in this case when I have known most of them for decades, reintroduce to the ones that don't recognize me ("Jane's Daughter, of course") , and do my best to make a connection with new faces (a little Jewish geography usually does the trick). We both have a tendency to flirt, and trust me my age gives me no advantage in this department, my mom's still got it. Not the kind of male attention that makes other wives uncomfortable (I don't think so anyway), it's more of a "girl next door" attention, slightly provocative but innocent and harmless. Our own spouses are not neglected; they are used to our party personality, and work the crowd at their own pace. Both appreciate our attention at every "check in", and even refill our drinks and save a place at the table if necessary.
We both buzz about all night, in and out of conversations, drinks with one circle, dinner with another, can’t miss a good story or a good laugh. We are both taking very thorough mental notes throughout; the “post-game” discussion is extensive and I can’t forget any details. We can overhear each other pointing the other one out across the room, “That’s my daughter, have you heard, she’s writing a blog?” Or from my end, “My mom, yes she does look great, very happy.” We are obviously the presidents of each other’s fan clubs. When I decide (in my head, even at a party, wheels always turning) that I would write about the night, I knew I would need a picture. Luckily iPhone is now never far from my hand and I have my “sister” do the honors (actually the daughter-in-law of one of mom’s sisters who became mine in this generation) we have created our own extended version of the name; “JZ” (yes we have the same initials) is my “sister from another mother.” She has 3 of her own biological ones, but that’s ok, and since we are not really related our children can marry (and we do have a plan for that). iCamera in hand, JZ snaps a few; mother and daughter evaluate and are not entirely pleased. I give the phone to Jeffrey, not much better, must be the camera because we know we look better than that (that’s what we are both thinking, I’m sure). We settle for what the camera holds; the party is waiting.
We both move to the lower level for dessert and dancing. Ice cream sundae bar and mini-cupcakes, I’m guessing we both chose the sundaes, mostly just the toppings, specifically hot fudge and whipped cream. I actually did not see her eat dessert; if I’m wrong here and she did not indulge I will apologize publicly. I’m just guessing from previous behavior. I am sure that she participated in the dancing portion of the evening and I most certainly did not. This is the only apparent difference in our social activity; if there is music, she is dancing. I will hit the dance floor at the required times (Bar Mitzvahs, Weddings, large social events), but at a house gathering of less than a 100 people it is doubtful I will be shaking my groove thing. She has significantly more rhythm than me (and most other women her age or mine), my dad did too, and yet their three children have six left feet? She can also be coaxed to the dance floor after a single glass of wine whereas I would need significantly more servings of harder alcohol. It’s not embarrassing though, she really looks good out there. Even as a kid I don’t remember hiding under the table watching them dance, I think it always felt like they were most in love on the dance floor. The dancing never caught on last night so I was never forced to join her, which also pleased Jeffrey.
It was starting to look like this evening was coming to a close and her “sisters” and their other halves took residence in the living room to rest their feet. OK, I’m gonna get in trouble for this one, but at some point in life, the shoes should stay on. No matter how good the rest of your body looks, and honestly most of these 70+ women have pretty good ones, the feet are not keeping up and all those hours at the gym are only making it worse. I hope someone reminds me of this 20 years from now, and if I hurt any feelings, it’s because I love you and I have to be honest. It was barely 11 p.m. and Jeffrey and I left long before they called it a night. Me and my mom, we do know how to have a good time at a party, but sometimes I just can’t keep up with her.
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