My Blonde Sister: My Brunette Self

My younger sister is now twenty-four years old, lives in Northern Virginia near D.C., has a real job with health benefits, and she has a real boyfriend who loves her. I am twenty-six, live in Hollywood, have ten different jobs so that I can pursue my dreams of becoming the next [insert important person here], and I would like to have a boyfriend who isn’t just interested in my amazing poetry skills. She is blonde. I am brunette.

She eats whole lemons.

I eat whole blocks of cheese.

She likes Long Island Iced Teas.

I prefer wine that tastes like mud.

I am jealous of her name. She is jealous of my wardrobe.  

I cry every time we watch The Notebook.

She stares at me every time we watch The Notebook.

We have plenty of similarities. Love cats. Strongly dislike mopping floors. And we cry to sad songs with sad lyrics and a sad woman's voice. Such as this one --> SAD

Sisters

I don’t remember a significant period of time when my sister and I hated each other; the type of hate where I wouldn’t let her hang out with my friends because I was embarrassed by her choice in backpack. The type of hate where I ignored her in the school hallways, mainly because we entered this world from the same uterus. I remember being the angriest when she "accidentally" ripped the head off my Rock Star Barbie (please understand - the doll came with a battery and microphone). Then I "accidentally" bit her. We had spats here and there: not talking to each other for an hour because the other ate all the good cereal. Yelling about whether to watch Friends or Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Having intelligent arguments such as “YOU STOLE MY SWEATER DON’T EVER DO IT AGAIN OR ELSE I WILL STEAL YOUR SWEATER.” But that is to be expected when favorite sweaters are stolen. But for the most part, we got along very well. We fight more in our New World adult lives. She disapproves of whomever I am dating. I disapprove of her choice in beer. When I come home for Christmas, our interactions sometime turn into the female version of David and Goliath. I want to be Goliath. Being the older, scarier, and less intelligent sister, I often dictated how my sister lived her life. I would pop up before she could decide how to deal with a difficult situation. She rarely had to speak for herself. Because we have the same voice, I would speak to people on the phone who were being mean to her and talk very fast so that they would get very confused. Before she could swim, she was terrified of the water. So, I would carry her on my back to the deep end of the pool- where she would then freak out and almost drown me. I was - to be quite accurate- her own personal assistant body guard thing.

Body Guard

My sister followed my "life path" almost exactly: we both played French horn; both Drum Majors in our high school marching band; both on the speech team in college; and she wore my ugly hand-me-downs for way too long. Essentially, what I am trying to say is that we were incredibly never popular. Because of our matching "paths" - I expected my sister to continue with my pattern. I went to graduate school in Southern California - so will she. I am pursuing a career in the entertainment industry - she will be in my movies. I have two cats - she will have two identical cats. I live in Hollywood - she will live in a bungalow next door.

"I have been hired for a really great company in D.C.. I am not moving to Los Angeles."

It must be very difficult telling your overbearing and terrifying older sister that you are not doing what she would like. Especially since I throw horrible tantrums. I finally recognized that my sister is an adult when this last Christmas I gifted her a quirky pair of green apple earrings. It was something she would have worn every day when she was fourteen, in-and-out of the shower. But as an adult woman, she is now interested in acrylic paints and red lipstick varieties. She runs marathons. She eats salads with feta cheese. She wears a watch and actually looks at the time. No matter how long someone has been in your life - distance and denial can slow down your pace with keeping up on their evolution. Los Angeles to D.C. is a long plane ride. Letting your younger sister be a grown up - and a better grown up than you - is a difficult plane ride. My sister and I have come a long way since playing English-speaking cheetahs in the backyard and wearing matching velvet overalls on the bus to school. We are sisters with the same voice, the same poor posture, and the same tendency to drink too much coffee . But I am the brunette sister who takes pictures with my pants off and posts them on all social media devices. She is the blonde sister who takes pictures with puppies, flowers, and friends. And that's OK. Sisters

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