Turning into my mother

It's early morning. Well, early according to my standards.
Huddling inside the freezing car, I can't wait to really wake up. The cold doesn't quite do it. It takes one thing to do that properly. The one thing I'm without for the moment. My vices - my cigarettes. Stressed out and delayed, as usual, I run into the store, giving a recognizing nod to the girl at the counter. She knows what I'm after, I've been in here nearly every morning. Grunting a hoarse 'thank you' to the her as she hands me my lifelines, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection on the window glass of the store. Slowing down, on my way out of there, I take another, harder look.

At first I couldn't understand what it was that caught my attention. The reflection showed nothing new. A half crazed woman in splendid morning grumpiness, desperately clutching to her pack of cigarettes. Eyes wild, body moving sort of gangly, as if still asleep. Oversized fleece jacket to keep the cold away, glasses on the verge of falling off from the tip of her nose, hair in a bun. Think crazy librarian, and you've got it. Sure, it doesn't paint a pretty picture, but that's not the point. That is hands-down how I look in the mornings, and I'm used to it. So, why the sudden self-interest?

Back in the car, racing for work, it hits me. God, in that oversized, badly fitting fleece, I look just like my mother. *Shudder*