I used to think the bond between a mother and daughter was a sacred truce that could be duplicated but never replicated, but that was before I met Meredith, a woman at my job whose unsolicited comments on my weight make me nostalgic for the conditional love of my own mother.
After moving to a new city for work, I was nervous about meeting people. But within months of being Meredith’s cubicle neighbor, she already felt comfortable enough to tell me it looked like my metabolism was slowing down. It’s precisely that kind of habitual boundary-stepping and gut-punch honesty that made me elevate her to second-mom status.
This new bond between us has taught me that you can pick your friends and family. If I’ve learned anything from past relationships, it’s that it’s probably good for you if it feels familiar. So even though Meredith telling me to suck in my stomach every time I walk by her desk might seem cruel and inappropriate, it reminds me of my relationship with my own mother, which is always a healthy parallel.
Despite my therapist’s waxing concern over my decision to adopt a second mom, I feel grateful to have not just one but two older women who care enough to remind me that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. I hope to pass this same dietary prowess onto my own children one day, assuming my eggs aren’t already “all dried up,” as Dr. Marjorie puts it.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a growing sense of resentment for her. Having to help Meredith reset her email password for the fourth time in two weeks after being called a fat spinster lends itself to a certain kind of rage. But what are mother-daughter relationships without some self-sacrifice and occasional tongue biting? I’m sure this quiet building anger will subside naturally once I join a gym, as Meredith suggested.
