Who am I? Although Jean Valjean can easily answer that question, I can take a good long hard look at myself, a real look at myself, and still not tell you where all of it comes from. Of course everybody says I have Daddy’s face, but where? Maybe it’s the nose and the too large pores in its creases. Or the lips and the not-quite-perfect-not-quite-ugly teeth. Or maybe it’s everybody else and we’re just not alike. Besides Mom and Dad don’t have such awkward face shapes that keep their soulmate a from wanting them.
Then I have to look at my body, because really who can resist? I know every teenage girl thinks she has a huge butt, but mine? Look at it! Just look at it! It’s a nuclear target! Couldn’t some of that over abundance be spread to the under abundance in my chest? And if, as DNA dictates, one of my parents is responsible, who is it? Do we blame the ethnic roots and move on. Thank goodness for my small waist and slender ankles, from my father and mother respectively. But my vertical deficiency must be a fluke. Neither of my parents is below average height.
Then to look deeper there’s the amiability and charisma. Clearly my father’s because although she denies it Mom’s people skills are lacking. The addiction to speaking is Dad’s too. To her credit though Mom did give me determination and perfectionism. But the emotional-ness, the passion for anything and everything, the desire–need–to be in stage? Those are all mine and there’s nothing wrong with thinking so.
So who am I??? Difficult question. I’ll have to get back to you on that one.