I’m going to go ahead and start with one of the biggest clichés of all time: my mother and I have a relationship like Lorelai and Rory Gilmore. I know, I know, everyone says that. That’s why I wanted to go ahead and get the most obvious comparison out of the way. We’re also Lucy and Ethel, Troy and Abed, and Jane and Daria. She’s my hero, best friend, and everything in-between. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve had our rough times. In retrospect, my teenage years were not my crowning moments. I didn’t understand why I only had to call to let her know where I was. I didn’t understand how much things actually cost. I didn’t understand that a Deb side ponytail was not the best look on me. That woman deserves sainthood for high school alone, let alone the first two years of my college career. But I digress. We’re so close that we actually have matching nose piercings.
Yes, you read the previous statement correctly. My mother and I actually have matching nose piercings. The only difference is mine is a hoop, and hers is a ring (even after much prodding on my part for her to take the plunge into the wonderful world of nose hoops). I remember when she surprised me with hers the day after I got mine. I was going off to college in two months, and she told me we could touch the side of our noses before bed, and we’d know we were thinking about each other. It’s super cheesy and sounds like the beginning of some derivative of Freaky Friday, but it shows great insight into our relationship and also how my mother has always allowed me to be myself.
The first major decision my mother supported me in happened during kindergarten. I’m going to preface this by stating I went to kindergarten in 1997, so forgive me. Every time my mother took me to get a basic hair trim, I threw a catastrophic hissy fit. This resulted in me having hair down to my butt for the first four years of my life. Suddenly, I had the brilliant idea to get the ever-popular bowl cut. Once the hospital revived my mother, she took me to the nearest Pro Cuts to get all of my hair chopped off. She and the stylist both masked their tears well. Ever since that fateful day, my mother has supported every creative decision I’ve made.
She helped me color-coordinate all of my outfits around my beloved red cowboy boots. She bought me tube after tube of pink lipstick and container after container of roll on glitter eye shadow to bring out the colors of the fairy wings I refused to take off. She took me back to the hair salon after I got in trouble in school the day after we dyed my hair black because it had “purple” undertones. She helped me dye my hair platinum blonde and cut it into a pixie after P!nk became one of my role models.
We both stained our hands blood red after dying our hair the same color and both cutting our bangs the same way. She never even flinched (in front of me) when I came home from college with my lip pierced two different times…and I sent her a picture again last summer of the Monroe lip piercing I had for approximately 48 hours. The woman even understands all of my seven tattoos (because she has three herself). She’s my creative rock. She’s the one who reads all of my pieces first. She’s the one who I workshop some of my bits for my podcast with. She’s the one who says “ummmhmmmmm” when my outfit isn’t working. I can’t image where I would be without her support.
I personally can go from social butterfly to recluse all within the same day. She’s always understood. She knows when to text me and when to give me my space. She’s pushed me to keep writing when no one else believed in me. She’s read every blog post and article and listened to every podcast. She’s told me I’m beautiful during the times I never believed it. She’s totally the reason I am where I am today, and I am who I am today. She’s my Lorelai Gilmore. And I’m proud to call myself her Rory.
[Image courtesy iStock]