If my sister can set a goal to keep blogging, I can try harder too.
My sister is 10.5 years older than me. The often-made joke was that our parents raised two only children. I was around for big sister’s perm (yay 90’s), her strange friends who showed up late on weekends and swallowed lit matches, and for the rumble of her glass packs. I was barely beginning my academic adventures of my own when she headed off for the big city, and never came back. She took to City Life much faster than I.
I like to think I outgrew pesky little sister relatively early, but that’s probably just a perk of this being *my* blog. My story, my rules. I helped her move countless times around the metro, living for the weekends that Mom would take me down and I got to follow Linna around and go to the movies and rollerblading and shopping. In high school, a couch, a DVR, and nothing to do were just a short two hour drive away.
Two hours seems like an eternity sometimes, like the day I took her dog to the farm with me, and Mara stared the whole flipping way. Poor neurotic puppy. And it was an eternity for her, I’m sure, when Mom was in the hospital in Wichita and Linna not only had to deal with that and Dad and her husband, but also that loser I thought I was going to date. You’re never too old for your big sister to stare you in the face and promise to always love you but to also force you to not make stupid decisions.
Two hours isn’t so long, though, in the big scheme of things. So I’ve tried to do more, make the most of the time I get to boss my big sissy. Come see me! Come love me! Come run with me!
So she’s worried about being 35 and on a different path than originally intended. So what? Life never takes us where we want to go, like some cabbie waitin on a fare. It takes us where it damn well wants us to be. Things always work out in the end.
But I’ll always be taller.