The best thing about sisters is they make you feel like like a non-crazy person.
Example #1:
We're about to go out. My sister notices what I'm wearing, says, “That blouse is so pretty. I’ve never seen it.”
"I know, " I say, practically whispering, practically conspiratorial, “I never wear it.”
Not practically conspiratorial. Absolutely.
Certain friends of mine are great precisely because they give me perspective on my weird neuroses. They say things like, “Why not? You should wear it all the time.” My sister, on the other hand, gives me a different kind of perspective, by mirroring that weird neurosis right back to me in a way that no one else alive on this planet would. Our exchange goes something like this: She says, “Yes! I totally do that!”
Me: “Because you don’t want to wear it too much—”
Her: “And risk getting, like, mustard on it—“
Me: “Or, like, just, wearing it out—”
Her: “—Yes—!”
Both of us: “I thought I was the only one!”
Example #2:
My sister and I are driving home from an afternoon of thrift store shopping. We drive by a Mexican restaurant. I say, “Chips and salsa.” She starts nodding like a crazy person, like I would nod. She says, “And Corona. With lime.” We look at each other, say, “Mexican food.” And that’s dinner plans.
It wasn’t always like this. My eldest sister’s a lot older than I am. When she was a moody teenager, I was a six-year-old more absorbed in the dynastic adventures of my stuffed animals than in the dull grown-ups that populated most of my interactions. When I was a moody teenager, she was getting married; she was learning about mortgages and scary rural Georgia neighbors. Now, we’re discovering each other in our adult years in a way that feels all the time to me—on the rare occasions that we’re together—like the best presents ever.
It’s associating every single stupid thing in the day with a stupid pop song, or with a commercial jingle we remember from our childhood. (“Go ahead: Get ahead, in fashion merchandising.”) It’s singing, constantly. It's understanding the nostalgia-thing: not just the pull toward our childhoods, but the constant urge to examine everything that once happened in some new light. Telling each other stupid stories. Listening.
It’s like someone telling me my crazy weaknesses are okay; that they’re not weaknesses after all. Maybe even things to be proud of.
Example #1:
We're about to go out. My sister notices what I'm wearing, says, “That blouse is so pretty. I’ve never seen it.”
"I know, " I say, practically whispering, practically conspiratorial, “I never wear it.”
Not practically conspiratorial. Absolutely.
Certain friends of mine are great precisely because they give me perspective on my weird neuroses. They say things like, “Why not? You should wear it all the time.” My sister, on the other hand, gives me a different kind of perspective, by mirroring that weird neurosis right back to me in a way that no one else alive on this planet would. Our exchange goes something like this: She says, “Yes! I totally do that!”
Me: “Because you don’t want to wear it too much—”
Her: “And risk getting, like, mustard on it—“
Me: “Or, like, just, wearing it out—”
Her: “—Yes—!”
Both of us: “I thought I was the only one!”
Example #2:
My sister and I are driving home from an afternoon of thrift store shopping. We drive by a Mexican restaurant. I say, “Chips and salsa.” She starts nodding like a crazy person, like I would nod. She says, “And Corona. With lime.” We look at each other, say, “Mexican food.” And that’s dinner plans.
It wasn’t always like this. My eldest sister’s a lot older than I am. When she was a moody teenager, I was a six-year-old more absorbed in the dynastic adventures of my stuffed animals than in the dull grown-ups that populated most of my interactions. When I was a moody teenager, she was getting married; she was learning about mortgages and scary rural Georgia neighbors. Now, we’re discovering each other in our adult years in a way that feels all the time to me—on the rare occasions that we’re together—like the best presents ever.
It’s associating every single stupid thing in the day with a stupid pop song, or with a commercial jingle we remember from our childhood. (“Go ahead: Get ahead, in fashion merchandising.”) It’s singing, constantly. It's understanding the nostalgia-thing: not just the pull toward our childhoods, but the constant urge to examine everything that once happened in some new light. Telling each other stupid stories. Listening.
It’s like someone telling me my crazy weaknesses are okay; that they’re not weaknesses after all. Maybe even things to be proud of.
Labels: home life
posted by Alice at 8:21 PM
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