Please put change in the hat- we're looking at getting an ironing board

Since mentioning my vision in the mirror yesterday and my rather speedy conversion into my mother I’ve been running the notion through my head frantically. I’ve been forgetting conversations, reading way too many books, I’m no longer getting complaints about my music and I’m actually doing laundry. Yes I believe I’m down to 2 piles. It’s a steep and slippery slope, soon I may actually iron something…I’m sure I have an iron.
 
Don’t get me wrong, my mother is awesome. She introduced me to Champagne (yes it does deserve a capital) at an early age, taught me to trust my decisions and intuition, showed me how to get stains out of silk and that you can’t scrimp on shoes or toilet paper. These lessons have served me well - but to turn into her? At this age? I don’t know. And since we seem to view turning into our parents as a non-positive experience have I been too quick to jump on the anti-parental bandwagon?
 
It occurred to me how many of my male friends and boyfriends have been pretty much in love with my mum. To this day, they still look to her for advice, respect her opinions, follow her judgement calls and telephone for her birthday (even some who no longer bother to call me!). In fact, upon reflection, perhaps I’ve been a second prize or entry into her personal private members club for some of them. She’s got warmth, generosity, a fun side and is so fiercely intelligent she can slice you and your mediocre opinions apart. None of which she is afraid to use in any combination she might fancy at the time. She oozes the confidence of not needing anyone, anything or any combination of it all AND she gets all the guys with a snap of her fingers! But generally speaking giving off those vibes as young women isn’t encouraged. We’re afraid of being pigeon holed at two ends of the spectrum, as walk-overs or nasty pieces of work left to sit in the corner and stare daggers at people not wearing black.
 
My saving grace is that maybe its taken a few years to realise she doesn’t need to pander to anyone else, that to be herself is intoxicating enough to recruit fans of all ages. But is it age which gives you the confidence to be yourself or is it the experience that age affords you?
 
If pure age is the case will the virtue of my passing years turn me into my mother whether I like it or not or will my experiences shape and mould me into some else but with a few footnote references? And what if I’m not happy with just that?
 
Forget my initial worries. Now I’m not so concerned about turning into my mother, I’m concerned, that perhaps, I won’t. What if I don’t have one child? What if I don’t end up running an empire? What if I don’t go drink milk at dinner parties and do cartwheels on the beach at 55? Will I still become her – or at least a version, in years to come? Maybe I’ll be left charmless and redundant with nothing to contribute and no finger clicking capabilities? And worst of all, maybe I won’t be able to cartwheel.
 
Forget finding love, and finding the right man! What if you’ve found someone you love, can trust and rely on, and she happens to be the woman to bought you into the world. How the hell do you end up just like her? And maybe conversely, if you never really liked her anyway – how do you not?
 
After having this manically swimming around my head, I think there is one thing I have confirmed a hundred times over. I really shouldn’t go near mirrors. Especially the type in French cafes that are misty and magical and give you just enough facial ambiguity to start you thinking about what life could be life if times and places and people were different – even just slightly.  I mean, imagine if I had an iron….