I’m a unique individual. I promise.

I’ve got weird hair (it’s all afro-like). I can hold my breath under water for a minute and 23 seconds. And I’ve gone my entire Stanford career, albeit short, without taking economics, computer science or math. I’m, like, one in six billion or something. Swear on it.

That’s why a few months ago I was a little shocked — alright, super shocked — when a couple of my friends told me there was someone out there exactly like me. Actually, come to think of it, they didn’t even give me that courtesy. They informed me that I was exactly like someone else already out there — as if the other person were the original and I was the imitation! The nerve!

“Wha? Ahem? I think not,” I quickly alerted my misinformed compatriots.

To which they promptly replied, “Yep. You are just like your mother.”

But alas! Is it true? Have I been deceived all along? Is my originality merely an illusion, a mirage, a red herring? Have I somehow met my biological and social destiny by turning into my mom? How did this happen?

I knew that I was different from my mother when I was 11 years old — you know, that age when a person finally start to see himself as a separate being from his parents. I began shaping my own identity and destiny, independent of parental influence.

When I was that age I was so sure my mother and I had little in common (except for our fantastic looks). Mumsers was a high-powered businesswoman — making deals, hiring and firing people, doing business things. Me? I never saw myself in the office where my mom worked.

I knew from an early age that I wanted to be an artist. I was good at drawing, writing and acting. How could I ever be a businesswoman? Math was always my weakest subject, and I can’t say my organizational/managerial skills were something to write home about (of course, I was 11). The thought of directing business fairs never entered my mind. That’s how I knew that I wasn’t like my mother — well, one of many ways how I knew.

Basically, Mumsers and I disagree on so much. Of course we’re not alike! She’s Obama; I’m Clinton (although I’m beginning to switch alliances...oh, dear!). She likes order; I like chaos. She makes charts; I make messes. She wears cute, frilly shirts while I tend to like clichéd graphic T-shirts (a like that is steadily waning, much to my mother’s fancy).

I remind myself of our differences as my friends mistakenly try to persuade me that Mumsers and I are alike. “You guys are crazy,” I tell them. They are.

“You’re the crazy one. Just look at her,” they tell me. So I do. I still don’t see it. When I tell this to my friends they are happy to show me what I’m missing. Apparently, we talk just alike, argue in the same way, have the same mannerisms and are both really passionate.

I mean, okay. Sure, maybe they are right about those few incidental little things, but surely that’s not enough to warrant them saying my mom and I are alike. I’ve spent my whole life trying to establish my independence only to have my work discounted by two crazy friends. But were they right? I propose to myself to be more conscience of my actions.

Bad decision. I am totally, 100% my mum.

Sigh.

I realize this as my roommate and I rearrange our room for the third time this year. I mean seriously rearrange — the kind of rearrange where we break out the tools, break into sweat and break a few bones. But why? Wasn’t it just a few months ago that I laughed as my mother told me how she was re-decorating (again!!!!) our apartment? New furniture, new paint jobs, new tile. As a teenager I always thought it silly that she was always changing things around. After she was done she’d ask me what I thought. Of course I always found that it was quite nice, but it seemed bizarre to put all that work into decoration — something that was so insignificant to me.

Dear me.

And socks — clothes in general, in fact. Why must people always leave them on the floor? Mumsers used to get so upset when I accidentally dropped clothes after doing laundry or something, leaving them in the hallway. I mean, I’d see them, of course. But it never bothered me. Why did it bother her so much?

Because it’s really annoying, people. I work hard to make mutual space clean and tidy. Is it so hard for you to make a five-second trip from the place you’re standing to the hamper or the drawer?

What have I become? My mum. After this startling realization, I quickly send an email to an old friend of mine and tell him the news. “Yeah, duh. You guys have always been just alike,” he says. How could no one have told me? I ask him what he means, “Well, you’re both really obsessed about nitpicky things. Remember how you used to hate it when I’d mark your clothes with a tiny piece of pen? Also, you’re both really smart and funny and ambitious.” Really smart, funny and ambitious? Hm. I mean, I suppose there are worse things to share in common with someone.

That’s when another realization hits me. Dude, I’m my mum. Frickin’ sweet. Sure, maybe I’m not as original or unique as I thought it was, but maybe Mumsers is onto a good thing. Come to think of it, maybe my grandmother was onto a good thing. Granny supported seven kids while taking in people’s ironing and eventually earning a nursing degree. Mom supported me while getting her MBA and eventually her J.D. (she’s a big shot New York lawyer now!). Why wouldn’t I want to follow in the steps of such greatness? People love Mumsers. She’s well-liked and people always come to her for advice. She’s a dynamic personality, and we love hanging out together. Yeah, maybe I am my mom. And I couldn’t be happier about it.