I just got home from a run, and my feet are killing me! I don’t know when I turned into an old woman who has to see a podiatrist every time I go for a mild jog, but this is starting to get insane!
I do remember my mum used to say something similar about her feet when she was my age – god, there’s a thought. I can actually remember my mother at my age. We had intelligent conversation. Which means, I must have been about… god, am I that far behind having kids already?
No. Stop. Focus. It’s a different time. Expectations aren’t the same! I don’t have any pressure to find a man, get married, start a family. All of that can wait. Besides, unless I meet him at a podiatrist clinic in Cheltenham, there’s really no time for me to find the perfect husband.
Maybe I should text her, ask her how she’s going. It’s been a little while, now that I think about it. When was the last time I actually spoke to her. Was it… Christmas? No, that’s ridiculous, that was almost a whole year ago. She was telling me about her roses, about how they were doing well now that the summer heat was picking up…
Dammit, it was Christmas.
If I pick up my phone now, what will I even say to her? “Hello, it’s me, your accidentally-estranged daughter. Brunch?”
Actually, that’s not half bad. If I ask her to answer her favourite question – which compression stockings should I buy? – she might just talk for long enough that she forgives me. Loves a compression stocking, that woman, it has to be said.
But what if she doesn’t forgive me? What if she ignores my text? Ghosts me for a week? It would be awful. And, considering her complete technological illiteracy, it might not even be on purpose.
Then again, I suppose that’s how I’ve made her feel, these past eleven months… dammit. I have to go text my mum.