Four decadent meals, two smuggled Mojitos in Central Park, one anti-kissing curmudgeon at the Plaza, and countless other amazing New York moments later, and I find myself walking around with a brilliant smile that seems to be nauseating everyone but me. And I couldn’t be happier about it.
Actual blog to come by the end of the month. Until then, enjoy some pics of my recent tour of New York with my guy. (Click the thumbnails for bigger images.)
I’m curious: what exactly defines the line between affectionate sibling rivalry and mental terrorism? Does once convincing your younger sister that she was the exact image of Carolanne from Poltergeist and suggesting that the ghosts may seek her out at night cross it?
I am beginning to think that a gift certificate for extended therapy may be the most appropriate Christmas present I can offer my sister this year. While I would never go so far as to consider myself a mean person, I may have inadvertently waged some attacks on my sister over the years that, under the guise of maturity, seem now to be unnecessarily harsh. (Damn this whole “growing up” thing: first it stuck me with responsibility, now: a conscience. What’s next? Humility? Shudder.)
It would be preferable if I could write everything off as childish pranks, and to be sure, at my current age, I do know better than to sit a 7 year-old down and force her to watch movies like The Exorcist. But the mental digs continue in our adulthood, and I’m guessing there’s no way to write off never calling my sister by her actual name, but instead one of the myriad pet names I’ve concocted, as being playful or cute.
Still, she’s not exactly playing the role of simmering victim: just ask her about the “I thought you were going to detach your jaw and swallow me whole,” comment she made at my expense once. I’m sure she’d be happy to recount the tale.
Our current relationship might be different if our upbringing didn’t focus so heavily on mental one-upmanship: psychological games have always been considered good form in our family. My guy is currently investigating the statute of limitations at DCFS because he insists the stuffed vulture I received from my mother when I was 9 and in quarantine with scarlet fever was not the thoughtful gift I consider it to be. Sarcasm and irony do make for interesting – albeit hard to explain – terms of endearment.
My concern now, however, is that as my sister and I move into new phases of our lives, it may be time for our relationship to shift.
The distinction between being a kick in the mouth or a love tap grows vague as we get older, and I’d hate for my ribbing to be misinterpreted as anything other than good natured. Plus, calling a married woman and college instructor (and yes, that would be my sister) “Rodan” isn’t as satisfying as it once was, particularly when she’s bright enough to point out that knowing what Rodan is shows my age and geek quotient.
I suppose I need to start giving her more credit for being on equal ground with me. She is, after all, an adult now, too. But more important, she is an adult with 26+ years of a grudge built up and a hereditary penchant for mind game warfare. And, if I’m honest with myself, she’s got enough dirt to bury me.
She also has an advantage: her being married in contrast to my being in the early stages of a relationship and still wanting desperately to look less like a deranged Bridget Jones and more like Angelina Jolie in her prime means she’s got the perfect setup for retaliation.
It would be just like her to rise up like a creature in a Japanese science fiction movie in the midst of an otherwise lovely event to unleash a torrent of flaming revenge:
“You think it’s funny to point and laugh while I’m being attacked by ducks? Take THIS!”
“You think setting my cast on fire is a fun game for the holidays? Take THIS!”
By the time she’d burned off the lifetime of abuse I’ve inflicted on her, my already shaky cool factor and ill-constructed front would be reduced to nothingness, leaving only my unfortunate quirks and general idiocy on display for all to bask in.
My guy meanwhile, if he hadn’t fled the room for safer territory, would likely be fetal, either from laughter, or terror as he discovers the truth: that despite all appearances, I’m really just a girl who once drown in her high school swimming pool, failed driver’s ed twice, and can’t seem to reconcile that her little sister has grown up.
Payback is a bitch, and I’m guessing it may be in my best interest to either lay the groundwork for a dark web of lies about being an only child, or to start back pedaling. I can’t take back the night terrors, neuroses, and deliberate blackouts I’ve likely caused my sister, but I can start making an effort to bring us close enough for a handshake.
It may be my only hope.