Do We Inherit Our Tastes From Our Parents? (personal)

Hey there world, it's your favourite genetic mishmash, Lev, coming at you with another brain-buzzing piece of my life. I've recently stumbled across this weird bit of science-y business - that our taste in, well, anything and anyone is somewhat hereditary. I mean, have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror, spotted that rebellious streak of yours and then suddenly realized: "OH NO, I'm a xerox copy of my parents!" No? Just me?

Firstly, let's address the elephant in the room. Or in this case, the elephant in my family's DNA. Apparently, someone's crammed a love for tall men with bony hands and a strong shirt collar game into my genetic makeup. She has this inexplicable love for men in collared shirts. She likes them suited and booted too. And here's the odd part - they have to have bony hands. Yes, you read that right. Bony hands. I guess they're the mark of a person who can open a tightly closed jar of pickles. A true knight in shining armor. Who knows?

When I was younger, I never understood my mom's fascination with men in collared shirts. To me, they just seemed...normal? A tad too ordinary? But here's where it gets weird - I've started finding these weirdly specific traits attractive too. Mum's weirdly specific type? Bingo, it's apparently my blueprint too.

Then there's my dad. His thing is girls who stomp around in Doc Martens, which, just so happens, is precisely the kind of shoes that I've worn until they're as scuffed as my algebra notebook. That's a bit too much of a coincidence, don't you think?

Let's not even get started on the musical side of things. My dad’s always been this secret indie rock nerd. And I always thought my musical preferences were my own little rebellion against the mainstream pop world. I thought I was the indie queen, championing underground bands like Heavenly and Talulah Gosh. Little did I know, dad was way ahead of the curve. He's been bobbing his head to those beats since, like, the dawn of time or something. Is nothing sacred anymore? It’s like finding out your secret hideout has been your dad's man cave all along.

The worst? I mean, the absolute kicker? My favourite band, Alvvays. God I love them so much. I almost needed therapy when I discovered their music was inspired by Teenage Fanclub, yet another Dad-certified classic. This makes my rebellious teenage spirit feel slightly played. I mean, am I rebelling or just riding the coattails of my parents' rebellion?

And mum? She didn't help either. She brought her own blend of chaos into the mix by belting out bossa nova at the company karaoke, while everyone else was struggling to reach the high notes of the latest pop songs. She couldn't even speak the language! To say she got stares is an understatement. They looked at her like she was a rare, exotic bird doing the samba. I guess I come by my weirdness honestly.

But you know what's weirder? How your taste in people changes over time. I used to go all starry-eyed over Marshall Lee types. You know, the guitar-wielding, sk8r boys with a hint of douchebaggery that's somehow endearing? But now, I'm leaning more towards the nerdy-but-nice types. It's like my 'douche-tolerance' has done a 180, and I'm not sure what to make of it. You know, the ones who'd help you figure out an impossible calculus problem, but also surprise you with your favorite bubble tea.

So there you have it. Maybe our tastes are hereditary. Or maybe we just borrow heavily from our parents until we figure out what our thing is. Could be another case of my genes playing puppeteer, or maybe it's just the journey of self-discovery every teen girl goes on. I'm still figuring it out. Either way, it's a fun theory to think about. But hey, if inheriting my parents' taste means walking around in comfy Docs, listening to cool bands, and appreciating the simple beauty of a collared shirt and bony hands, then sign me up! It’s either that or getting my dad’s brows…ｗ I think I know which one I’d prefer.

Till next time,

Lev