On being the short end of the stick...
I am, however, the short end of the stick in my mother's life for a variety of reasons, and one of these reasons weighs on my mind the most: I cost a lot of frickin' money.
There always seems to be something wrong with me, no matter how minor: I needed orthodontics as a child, I needed physiotherapy for my back as a teen, I'm crazy as a jay bird and sanity doesn't come cheap these days. Most recently, my hideously mis-shapen feet have been causing me trauma.
Last December, my mother bought me a new pair of shoes and three months later, my feet have torn through them from the inside. The bottoms of my feet are bruised, inflamed, and bright red. Not to mention constantly calloused, and if I had anyone's legs to warm my feet on at night, he would make good his escape. Why? Because who wants to have someone else's hideously mis-shapen, calloused feet warmed on their legs?
Many parents may look at their grown children as entities who need to learn how to take care of their own damn selves. For my mother, honestly, I don't know why she keeps taking care of my sorry ass because really, at my age, there aren't many reasons for me to not have some sort of stable income. (Except, of course, the pursuing of a degree in Sociology, which apparently exempts you from a wide variety of grown-up responsibilities.)
At any rate, my mother may very well have gotten the short end of the stick when she got me: I think that it's safe to say, however, that I certainly didn't get the short end of the stick when I got her.
I'm a lucky girl.
P.S: Thanks for the new boots, Mommy Dearest. You really do rock my socks. And now my socks are happily housed inside new Doc Martens because of you. I'll consider it my rockin' Grad present. Many thanks and Much love from your daughter, otherwise known as The Short End Of The Stick.