Very rarely my mum tells me stories about my childhood. When she does, she picks the ones when I behaved histerical, behaved in a way that could not be tolerated or when I was disrespectful. Well, fair enough.
But she often mentions how much I loved wearing skirt.
It makes me think that I wanted to simply copy her, just like every girl wants to be like their mum. My mum used to wear skirts, whether it was summer or winter and to accompany them, she always had an endless pairs of thights in the wardrobe. Also, she had a few pairs of high heels. I wore them more ofter than she did. My mum used to be a decent looking single lady, I guess. Never really had many boys around. She was not the type who put herself in the shopwindow.
She left her parents’ house after she finished her studies and moved to town. She rented a room. One after the other. She worked in a textile factory. Not much money she made, it was just enough to pay the rent, but in those days of the socialist era no-one really made more.
And one day she met my father, a good looking, caring man, who was much older than her, already had a wife and family, but who was not treated in the way he was worth. They were together whenever they could, they were always there for each other, although my dad never left his family. And another day there I came.
* * *
I’m almost thirty. I wear skirt all the time, I have an endless amount of thights and stockings along with high heels. I’m working as a waitress, I do not make much money, just enough to pay the bills. And I might seem to be the sociable kind of singles, but I don’t like to put myself in the shopwindow.
I only recently realized, how much I am like my mum was when she was in my age and it fucking threatens me. I have to fight myself, every single time, not to use pegs when hanging on clothes to dry.
* * *
And the most horrifying thing is that I know how my mum’s life has been since then.