Saturday, June 11, 2011

Sisters or Cats?

Why was it that when growing up my friends were like sisters but my sisters were not like friends?  That was a tough sentence to write.

I have two older sisters.  The first is five years ahead of me and when I was small I worshipped her.  Everything she did was gold.  She was smart and funny and I tried to be her friend; however, I was too young.  I was more the kiddo she looked out for.  The sister she babysat.  We went to different schools, listened to different music, and at an age when age meant everything, we were in two different worlds.

My other sister is much closer to me in years but couldn't be further away in personality.  She is two years older and we shared the same bedroom but if the kitchen knives were any closer in the house, someone would have been dead before they reached their sixteenth birthday.

I was the sloppy, relaxed one.  My sock drawer just had to have socks in it.  I didn't care if they were rolled up and matched.  I figured I'd find a pair eventually, no worries.  My side of the closet had clothes in it but I wasn't particular if my shoes sat neatly side by side or my school uniform was hung neatly or not.  In fact, most days I was lucky if I managed to get it on a hanger at all.  Not with my sister.  She was extremely particular and very neat.  She couldn't stand how casual I was about the whole business and, God forbid, if something crossed her side of the closet, all Hell would break loose.

There were times she would place masking tape across the thick green 1970's shag carpet.  That's when I would break out my mental warfare.  You see, she had the twin bed and side of the room next to the window away from the bedroom door and closet.  She was extremely paranoid about the boogie man crawling into the window at night and getting her.  So with my keen artillery, I would assert how foolish she was about choosing that side of the room and how if someone were to crawl in to attack her, she could not cross the line to escape her assailant.  Or, I'd mention how she didn't have access to her cherished closet unless she had my permission to cross the line.  Why was she so foolish to place the line down the center of the room.  Big dummy!

The physical fights were by far the worst.  We would go at each other like cats drawing blood with teeth, claws, or anything at our disposal.  By the time my mother walked into the bedroom, beds would be moved, pictures were off the walls, and blood splattered on our faces.  The interesting thing about this was that I thought everyone fought this way.  What in the world was wrong with us?!  We weren't children - we were treacherous, feral animals.

One time I was sitting in the back seat while mom was driving us someplace.  My sister was in the front and she said something which riled me senseless.  So, I did what any annoyed 12 year old would probably have done to her 14 year old sister wearing a pony tail within reach, I pulled it down with such force that her entire body arched over the front seat.  My grip remained firm until my mother's screaming combined with her pulling off the side of the road and a few good whacks to my backside convinced me that sissy had suffered enough of my wrath.

Perhaps this afternoon I'll place a call to an old friend and reminisce about these times.  I wonder if sissy will be home? 

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