What do you mean?
Today I spent most of the day with my mother. At IKEA.
It’s funny. Even at 81, she has more of an idea what she wants in the space she lives than I do in mine.
Mom had her list. We drove into Atlanta and she did her thing.
I looked over the desks for my future office space when we move into our renovated house in the year 2019.
I saw a very funky table top leg combo that I liked.
“You don’t want that. That will be in the first room people see when they come in the house. You need this.”
And she proceeded to show me what I needed. It wasn’t bad. But I liked the other better. Happy to inform you that I’m going to get the table I want. But as I typed that my breath got a bit quicker and blood pressure a bit wavier.
It’s funny living close to a woman who never got to express her opinion due to a domineering husband.
She is a woman unleashed. As much as a 81-year-old woman can be. Eighty-one-year-old women don’t burn their bras. They unhinge their tongues.
These days I flat out tell her, “Mom you are so passive aggressive.”
She replies, “You always say that. . . . What do you mean?”
See.
Only a passive aggressive genius would throw back — what do you mean?
We had fun. I just have to realize she won’t change and I need to. It’s okay to get whatever darn table I want.
NaBloPoMo, Day 12.
