I saw my mom role model today after I dropped my son off at school. She was walking in front of me in her cute little white capris and a matching spring jacket.
She had on those pert little socks that barely show above your tennis shoes, the ones that have the little balls that peek out from over the heels of your shoes.
I almost missed her; I was bent over, tucking my pants cuffs under because they were too long and I refused to wear heels. I didn't have on a cute spring jacket - I couldn't find one in the labyrinth that is our hall closet. In fact, I was wearing what my husband calls my "grandma sweater;" it was bequeathed to me years ago from a former cubicle mate who took pity on me when I, um, couldn't find a spring jacket.
My mom role model has bouncy curls and perfect makeup that she likely does not apply in the rear view mirror on the way to work. A quick glance at her nails tells me that they are filed into nice ovals, that the thumb nail is not bitten to the quick from stress, and the other nails are not covered with weird white polish that was on sale for $5 at Sephora because, it turns out, it looks like White-Out.
My mom role model smiles at me when she walks by, and her teeth are white and shiny. She must not be a writer; she probably doesn't stay up late drinking lots of coffee and developing new plot lines.
I don't know her, per se. Well, okay, I don't know her at all. But I bet we could be friends. As long as she doesn't have a twin. Because really, there's only so much perfection I can handle.
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