At the movies, I sit next to a woman I have seen around the neighborhood for years. A woman I've taken special note of because she reminds me of my mother. Which can elicit a feeling of undivided love and appreciation or something more equivalent to road rage, depending on the last conversation we had, or tried to.
While waiting for the film to begin, I go over and over in my head why this woman is so similar to my mom even though she has dyed red hair - instead of dyed blond - and she wears an over-abundance of silver jewelry rather than the gold accoutrement my mother prefers.
Manner: the perfect word for why she and my mother resemble each other. Let's just say that if they shopped together, they'd be drawn to the same bric-a-brac. Or if they were to chat about the neighborhood, family, religion or politics - though they'd likely skip religion and politics - they'd agree about most things, or politely pretend to. They are mothers and grandmothers from the same era. And even if they have no more in common than having married and procreated in the '50s, they have lived through much of what life has to offer, good and bad, which becomes its own loyalty in the same way veterans bond over a shared war.
And if this month weren't about gift giving, which it is, I would be satisfied with a quick scan of how I feel about the woman sitting next to me. Then I'd lean back to enjoy the trailers. But tonight I'm looking at her from the inside out, where the perspective is always more about listening than seeing. And if I listen carefully, it's not hard to hear why this woman has chosen a seat next to me.
Oh, God. I knew it. I knew it. What was I thinking?
You see, just yesterday I bought my mother's Christmas gift, the most exquisite 100-percent silk blouse that will fall over her ... rather ample body and bosom in the most elegant way. But one glance at the woman beside reminds me how utterly inappropriate the gift is for my mother. The blouse is appropriate for, you guessed it, me. What my mother would enjoy receiving is a shirt similar to the one the woman beside me proudly wears: a red-and-green sweatshirt/bumper sticker with the words "World's Greatest Grandmother" stitched in gold letters held up cheerfully by Mickey Mouse.
Let's back up. I need to back up here and say I have been trying (and failing) to "remake" my mother most of my life.
And so if, at first, I didn't understand why this woman sat beside me tonight, I realize now that I know exactly why.
To remind me to return the silk blouse.
Tomorrow. First thing.
Because even though much of the sentiment of this month falls on my ears like a load of meaningless bunk, there is a real message here even for the most irreverent: Gift giving is about the person on the receiving end.
After the movie I will sit in front of my computer and Google Disney Store. Because of all the people I need to buy for, Mom is the one I most want to please.
Which I fully intend to do.
Mary Lou Sanelli's newest book is "Falling Awake: An American Woman Gets a Grip on the Whole Changing World One Essay at a Time" (Aequitas Books, New York).
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