Up to last Wednesday, I thought I would never get infected with chickenpox. When I was a kid, Mum would make me play with the other neighbourhood kids whenever any of them got it. That did not work. For over three decades, that was reenacted over and over with nephews and nieces without success. Mum did say that the older I get chickenpox, the more miserable I would be. That was why she was in a hurry to get me infected. I, on the other hand, was beginning to believe that I was immune to it after all those failed attempts.
The rest is history not! I did get chickenpox. I am not sure if kids get off easier but I did have a hard time the whole week since the pesky little blisters appeared. It is a little ironic that for all the years that Mum tried to get me infected, she did not live to see this moment. Mothers are supposed to be around to see their children get chickenpox so that they can fuss over us with all the supersitions and taboos.
I am slightly disappointed by this break in tradition but I still need to get this off my chest: Look Ma! I got chickenpox! Yay! Yes, there is a smug smile on my face despite the discomfort of the past week that is slowly being replaced by a sense of having truly grown up. Never mind I got chickenpox at a ripe age of 43. The sense of being like everyone else is worth whatever I went through. I am not that different after all.