Freaky Friday, a pivotal movie in the awkward pre-pubescent stage, has become more and more applicable in my daily life as I mature (kind of?) into the next stages of my post-college path (Oy!).
She’s the strong force that has guided me through the heinous brace face era, middle school boyfriends that I would only text and call that a “relationship,” along with continuous sporting events that I needed to be driven to (underrated how helpless you were without a license and we’ve only been driving for hmm, I don’t know, around five years?!).
Where would you be without her constant feedback from the screenshots you text about your future captions for Instagram, unlimited swipes on the credit card for Sugar Lips, So Lows, velour and terry cloth Juicy track suits along with every color blackberry case to match your outfit, the 1000th Chi Straightener since they suddenly just “break,” and you can’t forget that fashion statement of a chunky Juicy charm bracelet that still sits in your jewelry box (because if it isn’t burned it should just stay there for something to laugh about…).
That guiding force that loved you uncontrollably, hated to say no to you, fought with you constantly and nagged you all of the time to be the best you could be. Safe to say that if it weren’t for my mom, I don’t know where I would be.
Now as a senior who is graduating this May, even though it pains me to admit that I would be Lindsay Lohan in the present day situation of Freaky Friday, since I have no intention of falling off of the deep end, (so the pre- pre Lohan in Parent Trap but imagine in Freaky Friday), and my mom Jamie Lee Curtis…our lives have now switched.
Exhibit A: Instead of all of my aim “l0l,” “cliche quotes in my profile,” “boyfriend’s name with excessive and borderline creepy hearts,” “BFFAEAEAE,””xoxoxo campies 4eva (insert zipcode)” when I want to speak with someone, I call or FaceTime them. I want to hear what they have to say as opposed to rely on characters.
Exhibit B: My purse is a bottomless pit of necessities. My friend needs a band aid? I have it. Tums? You can count on me seeing as I take them like Tic Tacs. Advil? This isn’t peasantry. Purell? Well I mean I AM a germaphobe. Napkins? Well what else do you think I do with the mound I generally take from Starbucks with my venti-iced coffee? A pen, highlighter, stapler, tape, fashion tape, Sticky Note? I have a school supply pouch in just about every bag since School Supply stores are so organized I could walk down the aisles for days. A snack? Most likely a protein bar or five. Headphones? How else do you think I avoid people walking down the streets of NYC? Phone Charger? I won’t go out unless my phone is at 100% because anxiety… and don’t even ask about a portable charger either because you know what the answer will be — These are what I call “Neurotic Mom-isms” which can generally be caused by the influx of moms from the Northeast or the small percentage that snowbird to Boca.
While that purse is heavier than my school bag (#senioritis), I wouldn’t want it any other way. My transformation from Lindsay Lohan to Jamie Lee Curtis (thank goodness, an orange jumpsuit wouldn’t have looked good on me) is one that I am beyond thankful for. My incredible mother has been my cheerleader, rock, best friend, role model and so much more throughout my entire life, that becoming one half of the woman she is, is something that I not only strive for, but would be blessed to be like. You know it has come full circle when you’re the one holding your mom’s hair back when she’s had too much in one night… to this day it is brought up and still laughed about, and when she’s forgetting things in her purse that you know you have. What a gratifying feeling, and also a photo opp for permanent blackmail. So thank you mom! You’ve given me the world, and I don’t know where I would be without you. I appreciate you today and every other day, and becoming even remotely like you is something I consider an accomplishment, because you deserve a medal for dealing with me… literally. 10 Olympic Gold medals!X’s, Oh’s and Neurotic Mommy Genes/Jeans,
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