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When I was a teenager, my mother had a habit of waking me up on Sunday mornings by asking what I was wearing to church. “Ummm, probably my pink Laura Ashley dress,” I’d say groggily. Mom would flit off somewhere and I’d rub my eyes and stumble into the shower, emerging fully dressed from my room an hour later to find her wearing a pink outfit that perfectly coordinated with mine.

“Mom!” I’d say incredulously. “You’re matching me. You did that on purpose!”

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