sisters

There is supposed to be an unshakeable, indescribable bond between sisters.  You grow up together, are both girls so presumably can understand each other and get along with each other (slash fight and beat up each other in the most loving of ways) in a way that doesn’t happen between brothers and sisters, or even between best girlfriends. There is no one else in this world who knows exactly what your childhood was like, and what flavour yogurt is your favourite, whose physicality and neuroses were shaped by the same two humans, and who knows everything that happened the night you ran into a doorknob, needed stitches and almost literally poked your eye out (yes, I almost validated this myth parents tell their children). As the younger sibling, you admired them in so many ways just by virtue of the fact that they were older and just knew stuff and did stuff before you. However, there comes a time when they cross a line. When you grow up with these sisters, it is the BIGGEST deal when they take your shirt without asking, even though you weren’t planning on wearing it anytime soon, and probably don’t even wear it at all. It is THE PRINCIPLE. You fight, yell, scream, cry, throw the standard tantrum, and scream, “I HATE YOU” and you mean it. There is no one you love more or hate more than your sister because while they get you in ways no one else can, you have no boundaries with them, and most importantly, you also did not choose them. They were thrust upon you, or inflicted upon you (depending how you see it), when you were born into this world as the younger sibling. When I was little my sister was my default best friend, and was my companion in my house and when my family went away on vacation. She was the person to whom I made (and still make) goofy faces when my family went out for dinner and my parents started talked about something boring like golf swings. Accordingly, when I was younger, shortly after the “I hate you” would be thrown into the air, I would pretty much instantly get bored. I would sit in my room for a bit. And by bit I mean 5 minutes. I would then realize that I wanted to play and needed my companion back. So I would come back into my sister’s room and ask to play and then, the fight would be over. From this tradition was built the idea that our fights would never last long even if they were the result of really disgusting behaviors and were brutal and cutting and psychotic invectives were thrown. A recent altercation is causing me to wonder if this should change. But then again, I will probably get over it in 5 minutes.