Inpursuitof

A minimum of 412 times in my life, I have believed I am the result of a long discarded and forgotten attempt at human cloning. One look at a picture of my folks and you’ll understand why. But there are subtler signs. My mum grew into her fear of flying around the age I am when I’m becoming more wary of getting into a massive metal box that seems to become airborne only by default, as opposed to actual physics. My dad toyed with his creativity for a few years while he flitted from job to job in a way that’s frighteningly similar to my own.  My mum’s excuse that ‘that wasn’t how she meant it’ is starting to make sense. Sometimes, my dad’s face actually takes control of mine. I fear I’m not the only one.

The worst thing you can say to a person is that they’re becoming their parents. Our oh-so-observant, smart-arse childhoods are spent watching these people live their lives and make their mistakes. We slowly realise that they are just human not the omniscient, omnipotent beings we thought, and we tear them apart for it. We are determined not to be like them. They did the best they could, but we’re sure we can do better.

Should we be afraid of the slow creep of genetics that wrests our selves into the mould of our DNA? Or should we embrace it, grasp the opportunity to realise our parents’ mistakes and fix them? Is this what gives us the edge in the survival of the fittest, the chance to take the best of what we’ve been given and fight our damnedest against the bit that forgot you once in the supermarket?

1) A kilo of white chocolate buttons to a girl at work

2) Someone who saw me do the wake-up-head-snap

3) Her, she passed her driving test today