It's a mystery, one that can't be solved in less than an hour.

It was a typical morning at my house.

I got up, fixed my coffee, talked to the dog, made breakfast, packed lunches, finished some dishes, started laundry, picked up other people's socks, got more coffee, talked to the dog (we have a bond,) and turned on The Cosby Show.


I don't always watch Cosby.  It just happened to be the only decent thing on when I sat down after getting up, fixing the coffee, talking to the dog, and so on.  I usually sit down at some point mid-morning, not because I have nothing to do, but because I have to eat something and it is my "me" time.  Plus, it is a lot better than standing in front of the washing machine and waiting for it to make that clicking sound when the load is over.

After Rudy learned a valuable lesson about growing up, I channeled surfed for a bit and found Matlock.  I have to make a confession here. I got a little excited.

Then I remembered that I am not 75 years old.

And you know what is worse than watching Matlock at age 41?  It's getting on the computer and missing what revelation Matlock just made and then rewinding it so you could hear it and not miss anything. 

I always wondered why they never had a special two-hour drama where Angela Lansbury and Ben Matlock meet in some coastal town and work on a murder case together. Wouldn't that have been the best?

As you can tell, I may in fact be a 75 year-old woman trapped in a 41 year-old body.  Would someone hand me my TV Guide?

I sat there watching Ben in his blue suit explain to a jury why his client was innocent and I realized one thing.  More and more, I am taking after the women in my family. 

I say things like "there's nothing decent on TV anymore" and "I have to sit down." Nearly on a daily basis I comment on "what this world is coming to" or how something just "tickles me to death."

I also walk around in my house shoes whether I am in my sleep clothes or dressed.  It's not attractive, but it is better on your legs when you have to "stand on that hard tile in the kitchen." 

Yep, I get it honest.  I don't know when it happened, but I have become my grandmother's granddaughter, my mother's daughter, my aunt's niece and so on.  And that's a good thing. I am not sure if it happened overnight or gradually like the tendency toward bunions, which I also inherited.

I still twinge a little when I wear something in white after Labor Day, even though I know it is now supposed to be fashionably acceptable.

I walk through Belk and see a baby outfit and declare,"Now that is just PRECIOUS! Isn't it PRECIOUS?"

Then my daughter says,"You always say everything is precious," and rolls her eyes a little. (You just wait until she's 41 years old and sees a darling smocked dress.)

I curl my toes under when I sit down. 

I have to eat something salty after dessert to cut the sweet.

I love butterbeans and biscuits and I sop the biscuit in the butterbean juice.

I like cotton, but not linen. 

I watch Matlock and Murder, She Wrote and I talk back to the television when they haven't figured it out yet.

Yes, I am becoming more and more like the women in my family, one quirky gesture or preference at a time.

It tickles me to death just thinking about it.