thanks for that, mom

You know how parents are ultra embarrassing when you’re growing up? Maybe it’s their undying love of Birkenstocks, or when they try to say trendy things like “that’s cray” and “chillax” or even how they clip their toenails onto their plate after they finish eating. Well, at the ripe age of 28, I’ve come to the realization that this embarrassment never ends. It just evolves into something different.

palmspringspoolsign

(picture taken in Palm Springs, CA this past summer)

Mom: Blair, did you see this sign? Maybe you shouldn’t swim today.

Me: Uh… I’m fine, mom. No diarrhea here.

Mom: But, I saw you rush to the bathroom when I was getting water in the middle of the night. I just assumed it was urgent. Is everything working okay down there? Have you seen a doctor lately? Diarrhea can make you dehydrated. Make sure you drink more water today.

Me: Thanks, mom. I’m good. Just a routine visit in the night.

Mom: Do you remember that time you pooped in the bath tub when you were with your sister? I can think of a couple times you went in the water when you were little. I don’t know what it was… but, you liked to let loose once you hit water. I think it relaxed you. It was so weird.

What’s more humiliating: my mom deciding to loudly discuss my issues in public, or the woman who was frantically pulling her kids out of the water while they were crying, thinking there was actually a possibility I would crap in there? Thanks for the vote of confidence, lady. I’m almost 30.

abercrombie nightmares

Today I had the pleasure of shopping at Abercrombie with my cousin. Or displeasure. I remember this store being popular when I was in high school… which was sadly now over a decade ago (man I’m ancient.) But I do NOT remember the migraine-inducing volume of music and heavy stench of perfume that gets burned into the walls of your nose. Not sure how this entices people to buy their clothes… it just makes me want to run away screaming while elbowing all the kids in my way.

Worst of all, the girls who work there have waists the size of my thigh. I may be exaggerating a teeny-tiny bit, but not much. It doesn’t get more depressing than that, folks.

I just don’t get the appeal — which makes me feel like I’m hitting that point in adulthood when I turn into my mother because she just never understood ANYTHING cool when I was young. It’s a scary, chill-inducing thought.

I need some anti-aging cream, stat! And a Dr. to pump the perfumey stench of teenage angst and depression out of my lungs would be useful, too.