Today my parents celebrated their 26th wedding anniversary - or, as a friend of mine recently put it, their 26th year of "managing not to get divorced". So we all got dressed up and went to dinner at Lawry's (not that you really need to dress up to go to Lawry's, but hey, any excuse to wear my pretty gold heels), where we wolfed down bloody - and bloody overpriced - slabs of meat and some passable Bordeaux.
I don't usually talk about my parents much except to relate exaggerated horror stories of religious rites, so I thought I'd dedicate this entry to them, especially since I hope they never stumble upon this blog.
When I was growing up it seemed as though everyone I knew spent a lot of time complaining about their parents. I never really had anything to add to those discussions (at that time I was still obediently church-going and all). My parents aren't perfect, of course, but somehow they seemed to make their marriage work and weekend family dinners an event to look forward to, and because of that I never doubted that I could do the same one day. Spending time with my family often spoils me for other company; every one of them understands my sometimes oblique references without needing further explanation. My parents were also the only parents I knew who would embarrass their kids in public by smooching in shopping centres. My eyes have never quite been the same since.
Sometimes I wonder if they're really that happy, or if they've secretly soundproofed the master bedroom so we can't hear them throwing things at each other late at night.
In any case, my parents are the only people (aside from my editors) who show constant, genuine and in-depth interest in my work. My mum, in particular, is a non-stop source of story ideas. Many of them make me wonder if she really understands what it is I do ("Can you write about this woman who was rude to me in the shop today?"), but an equal number have actually turned into real stories.
My dad, on the other hand, is responsible for much of my life philosophies. Whenever I instinctively whip out my credit card to pay for a round of drinks, or refuse a ride home to avoid inconveniencing someone else, or volunteer for more work after a long day - that's what makes me my dad's daughter.
That I've turned out to be a romantic (but practical) sucker who genuinely trusts in the existence of unconditional love, however rare it may be (see, that's the practical side of me) - is, I think, a credit to my parents. (My prolix writing style complete with parentheses after every seven words, however, is entirely of my own creation.)
So here's to my mummy and daddy - for as long as they can have a happy life together two more years than I've been on this earth, I will always believe in love.
posted by zyn ::
11:41 PM ::
4 Comments ::
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