Turning into my mother

So I was looking for a dress for this upcoming wedding (not mine of course, der) and I was hemming and hawing over whether I should buy the teal or the red dress.

The reason that I was having a Sophie's choice was because if I bought the red then I'd be breaking the wedding guest cardinal rule: don't wear red and upstage the bride, dummy.
But the teal just didn't look as good.

So finally I broke down and went to the store and asked the salesgirl for the red dress.


Thanks to my ridiculous indecision they only had a size 8 left and no amount of wishful thinking/pushing and squeezing myself into place was going to induce that zipper up and the only other size 10 was alllllllll the way across Sydney. I was going to have to drive a million kilometres to pick up this stupid red dress.

Another sane person would have just bought the teal and been done with it.

So I hauled myself across space and time and peak hour traffic to acquire said garment, I tried it on again in the dressing room and after all that it just didn't look as good, it looked weird. Go figure.

I bought it anyway because of the said blood, sweat and tears drive and when I got to the carpark I pulled it out again to take a look at it.

It was oddly familiar and as I stared at it some more, I realised that the damn thing was a carbon copy of my mother's dress. Her favourite dress that she wore when I was a teenager. Rather hilariously, I didn't have to run cross country to get at it, I could have just dug around at the bottom of her wardrobe.

Don't fight it, you'll turn into them one day and it'll be beyond you how it actually happened.