Love My Mom. HATE Fighting With Her.

There is nothing worse than fighting with your mother. Well, besides hunger in third world countries, wars, terrorism, animal cruelty, and cancer, there is nothing worse than fighting with your mother. Whether you’re home for winter break and the two of you come to the realization that there is only so much diva one kitchen can hold, or you’re in your college town playing the old “yell on the phone, hang up, think of something witty to say, call back, and then hang up again” game, mother-daughter arguments are treacherous, obnoxious, and inevitable.

The very worst part is that she’s always right. Even when she’s wrong, she’s always right. Even when you would bet your right kneecap that you have a full and better understanding of the given situation, she’s still right. It’s exhausting. When you come home with a sweet chiffon top and coordinating bandeau from Nordstrom, excited because you think it’s subtly sexy, but in a sophisticated way, and your trendy fashion Nazi mother thinks you look like a skanky librarian whose eyesight is too poor to realize her bra is showing, she’s probably right. Well excuse me, Mom, but things could be worse. Let’s just take a gander at Suzie Short Skirt who insists on squeezing her chubby body into a mini pencil skirt paired with studied booties for church on Sunday. What’s that? I shouldn’t be comparing myself to people who are less fortunate? WELL…you’re right, but I still like my shirt. As an educated, societal woman (see also: sorority girl), it’s so difficult to go down without a fight. Your mother, unfortunately, was an educated, societal woman years before you, and has arguing tactics up her sleeves that you haven’t even learned from her yet. She’s better at it. It sucks, but she’s better at it.

Another huge, and uncompromising factor in mother-daughter dueling is the simple fact that times have changed. My mother couldn’t understand, for example, why I wanted to move out of my sorority house, filled almost entirely with freshmen and exec, into a cute, little townhouse with a few girls from my pledge class. Back in the 80’s, her sorority house was her personal Barbie dream house, and she had to be dragged out of it with all of her belongings, bawling after graduation. Back in the 80’s, she also had a perm and neon yellow, patent leather heels. It became impossible to explain, without being accused of alcoholism…again, that as a 21-year-old, the house wasn’t exactly ideal living quarters. I just chalked it up to “Things are different now, seniors don’t live in the house.” She still had trouble understanding, because although times have changed, to our moms it’s still a 1985 type of world out there, and you’re lucky you got her to change her hairstyle.

Even though they seem like they were put on this earth to combat us on issues like men, shoes, grades, whether or not Miracle Whip is an appropriate mayonnaise substitute, and pretty much any other topic of conversation that has more than one side to it, they are still our mothers. They will love us unconditionally for lighting up their lives, and we will forever have them to thank for our high metabolisms and great hair. And eventually, there will come a day, when our own little girls are bitching about how we’re so impossible to argue with because we’re always right. Always.

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