Mum's the word

I saw my mother at the gym a couple of nights ago. I peered into the aerobics studio where a high-octane cardio class was going on. I spotted Mum somewhere in the middle of the class, working it like she was the Asian version of Beyonce. Sure, she was a little less coordinated than the rest of the class. Sure, she was a beat or two slower than the rest of the class. However, she sure as hell was the most enthusiastic. At 63, my mum was probably the oldest person in the class flailing her arms like there was no tomorrow.

When my mum retired from teaching a few years back, I made her join the gym to give her something to do. At first, she tagged along with me for the classes. I would nag at her to keep her back straight, her abdominal muscles tight yadda yadda yadda. Suddenly, I became the mother. A few months later, she became more independent and started going to the gym on her own. Now, she has her own friends at the gym and can tell me who is gay and who is not. She has matchy-matchy gym clothes and shoes for different types of exercise. She says hello to everyone and tells everyone that I am her daughter.

When I grow up, I hope to live life with the same kind of vigour that my mum has. I am happy to be my mother's child.