It's been years since I wrote you a letter....probably as many as my age. So, I thought I'd pen a few words about you, for you, and to you. The fact that you're my mother, sister and best friend isn't the topic of discussion in this letter. Neither are the facts that I always felt as loved and protected with the mere thought of you (when you weren't around), or that I love you dearly and have never known a more beautiful woman, a part of this letter. If you don't know this by now then you're crazy, and we can't have two crazy people in the same family (not talking about you dad).
No, this letter is going to tell you all the things I hate about you. The things that make be mad as hell and cringe with fright.
I hate your hips. Oh, on you they look fine (could lose a little off the edges though). It's the fact that I've inherited them and it takes me forever to keep them in even the slightest of decent shape, that I can't stand. Your eyesight! Can't stand the fact you can't see even an inch in front of your face without your glasses, but can see into the depths of my soul, without my being anywhere near you. I detest your intuition. You would always know when I needed you, though I tried to hide the fact, even from across the world. Your sense of smell is demonic! Every time I'd had a smoke you'd know, even before I entered the house.
Your dirty mind is one for a museum. Honestly, the things you've taught me could get even the darkest man red in the face with embarrassment. I think we can safely blame your mother for that one. You're crazy methods of relaxation make me want to crawl into the nearest hole, not because they work, but because they're too damned crazy not to. I hate your diplomatic ability, which has turned some of my worst moments bearable. I detest the fact you can teach anyone and anything (the cat) to do what you bid. I still remember scaring the daylights out of your tuition student, but you made him an honor student in his school. Your talent for all things artistic really irks me to no end, since I'm challenged in that arena.
I particularly can't stand your patience. It drives me nuts. You'd never lose sight of your goal, even when you were screaming and shouting at us, and always persisted, relentlessly, to achieve them (especially the goal to get me to behave). I abhor your tolerance, not only because you've accepted a whole load of crap thrown at you in your life with a smile, but because you always taught me to be the same.
Your strength and absolute level headedness makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry. I remember when my brother was burned, you swallowed your scream, and with a surgeon's precision started first aid, which later got you compliments from the entire burn unit staff for your quick thinking, while I ran around screaming my head off. I hate your steadfastness on things you know are right, and your inability to divert from the truth, no matter how hard it was to accept, especially for me. I especially hate it that you're always right, about everything, but have the decency not to rub it in my face with 'I told you so!'
I vehemently hate the fact that you always pushed me to be better than I was, especially because I was a girl. You let me make my mistakes and gave me space to understand them and learn from them, always in the background if I needed you. I don't even remotely like the fact that you've made me so independent that I could run a country on my own. I hated your constant nagging about my health, and the fact that if I didn't look after myself, no one else would.
But you know what the worst thing about you is?
I can never be you! That's a loss I mourn without even having. You are the epitome of perfection in my eyes, except the hips. I can only hope, as my children grow older, that they hate even a fraction of the things I hate about you. I am what I am because of you, but I hate it that you left me imperfect!