Birthday wishes are slightly past-due for my sister, who turned 30-something last Friday. When people inquire about who is the older sister, I place my curiosity above slight social awkwardness, and urge the person to wager a guess. “Ummm…” the inquirer will say, eyes shifting from her faint crows feet to my blooming jowls. Perhaps her white smile and sleek complexion prompt the person to proclaim that my older sister is, in fact, the younger.
This might embitter some younger sisters, but I take it with resigned amusement. Because I asked, and I can’t very well be outraged because someone had failed to detect a 2 and a half year age difference that feels negligible anyway.
Adulthood confers sibling equality, but of course it wasn’t always that way. Nothing symbolizes the injustice to little sisters like hand-me-down clothes. I gradually developed an awareness that my wardrobe was coming from my sister’s closet, while her wardrobe was coming from the store — the older sister’s birthright. I could profess resentment, but even after we achieved similar heights as teenagers, it was always me accepting her castoffs and raiding her closet — the younger sister’s prerogative.
Here’s a picture of my sister and I in a sailboat on the Loire River, taken last month. For perhaps the first time ever, I will publicly admit that we bare a sisterly resemblance to one another. (See that black scarf? I totally “borrowed” it from her about 10 years ago.)
