The Plight of Little Sisters

Last week, one of the student discussion topics was about taking things or people for granted. Someone shared her experience about her big sister leaving for college. She told us that she didn't realize how much she would miss her sister until she saw her walk into the dorm; at that moment, she finally understood that her sister would not be coming home with them. This was not a vacation. She said that all she could think about was the months of emptiness ahead, and she was surprised to discover how mad she was at the whole situation. I was listening to her talk, and you know what I realized? Being a little sister must suck.

You never get to leave first.

I remember the day I went to college. My family had just spent a week camping, purportedly to lessen the stress of saying goodbye for a whole month. I was so excited I could barely breathe; I immediately hooked up with the friends I'd met during orientation. We had a big family lunch in the dining hall, but I sat with my friends. I don't even know if I looked up when my family left.

I can't imagine what that must have felt like for Rider. I'm sure it hurt my parents and my brother too, but they were older than nine. And Rider, as you've no doubt realized, is the light of my life. We have a very close relationship, and there's nothing creepy about it. It's just the way it is. It's been like that ever since Rider was born. My friends used to ask me if I'd leave Rider at home once in a while, because I included her in nearly everything I did. I know that's weird, and I don't much care. We're each other's soul.

So, how does it feel to watch your soul walk away from you, looking for all appearances like it's thrilled to be free?

I called home. I came home a lot. But every time I came home, I was different. I changed so much in college that every visit home required negotiation. I struggled to maintain my place in the family, even as I was rejecting it. Life went on without me. Rider went on without me. Just as it should be.

Years later, at my wedding, Rider and I had another "moment." Rider requested that the DJ play "Our House," by Crosby, et al. That song was special to the two of us, because we really did have two cats (often in the yard), and life used to be hard (but having a sister made it easier). When I heard it, I ran over and hugged her, and then I let go. She had tears in her eyes. I laughed at her a little; after all, it wasn't like I was leaving her. I was just married; no big, right?

"Shut up," she said. "You don't know what this feels like; it's never happened to you. This is something I got to feel first." I shut up. Rider is the only one who can render me speechless.

She was right. Bigs know about leaving; they don't know about being left. They move forward, and littles stay behind. Littles watch their older siblings grow up, and because they're always watching, they don't notice that they're growing up too. Yes, littles get the benefit of their parents' experiences; yes, littles are often the pets of their families. But littles get left behind.

Maybe that's why Rider pushed herself to go farther, to move faster, to do more. All I know is, when I left her at Christmas, just days before she deployed to Iraq, I got a little taste of loss and fear -- just a little. I didn't like it. I left, but she was Leaving -- with no guarantees as to when (if) she was coming home, or who she would be once she got here. This feeling, this sensation of being ripped apart, of hollowness, of aching love -- well, I didn't much care for it, to be honest. And it will come again, because that's what families do as they age. They leave, then come together, and leave again, and that's the Way of it.

So as I talked to Rider this morning, and we discussed her future plans, I unfairly demanded that she not move around so much. "You're not reupping," I told her. "You're getting out, and then you're coming home." This was an order, albeit a joking one. Because I'm well aware that my soul has sneakers, too -- I have no idea where we will live once we're through with grad school (no, Cindy -- NOT Ellenburg). I want my little sister here with me, until I'm ready to leave her again. Even I know how unfair that sounds, but I can't help it. As I finish this blog entry, I realize that being a big has such broad benefits compared to the other birth placements. I leave; I come back; I expect all to remain exactly as it was when I left. Meanwhile, Rider presses her nose against the window and waits for my return, and finally moves on. Is it fair for me to ask her to reorder her life for my sole benefit?

Damn right it is.

Damn, I'm good.

Well, this post is going to win me some friends and influence people, but it just has to be said. Now, please don't take offense; don't think I'm an arrogant, insufferable biotch -- it might be true, but don't think it. Because I just have to get this off my chest:

I'm good.

No, I mean it. I'm really, really good at some things, and when given the opportunity, I don't just shine. I glow, baby. I light up like a Vegas casino. I can be seen from space.

I know it sounds horrible. I'm supposed to be modest and unassuming, like all good girls. I'm not supposed to know I'm good, and if I even suspect such a thing, I shouldn't go around saying it. I'll put a little caveat in, just so no one feels obligated to flame me for my hubris. I'm not good at everything, okay? I can't, for example, juggle. I can't do a cartwheel. I certainly can't manage money, and I haven't successfully balanced a quarter on the end of my nose. But when I'm good, I'm really, really good.

And I'm good at teaching.

Today was our group presentation. My brochure got rave reviews, and my husband overheard my teacher talking with another professor about what a great presenter I was. Is it wrong for me to own this? Can I toot my own horn a little? Or should I brush off the praise with a wave of my hand and insist that it was nothing?

It was not nothing. It was most definitely something. I'm working hard. For the first time in my academic career, my classes mean my future, so I'm paying attention. I'm developing mad skills, and redefining myself. And you know what I've decided the definition of "Tierant" is?

Damn good.

SALACIOUS!!

I taught my friend Cindy a new word today (it's really more of a motto, isn't it, Cin?). Salacious: lecherous, pornographic, relating to shocking debauchery. I'd like to say it's kind of like my life, but alas, I'm married, and currently salacious-deprived.

I was using this word to describe W. Faulkner's Sanctuary, which we recently read in my American Lit class. Quite a piece of work! I'm not sure if I mean that in a good way, but I promise to give Bill another chance. I'll reserve judgment until I finish Absalom, Absalom! But I should tell you that Papa is winning the contest for my affections. Call me kooky, but I prefer bullfighting, alcoholism, and sparity of prose over incest, rape by corncob, and stream-of-consciousness stylings. Tonight I continue For Whom the Bell Tolls, which I'm loving. It's as depressing as Sanctuary, but in a much more satisfying way. It's an uplifting depression. Yeah, everybody dies, but you feel good about it at the end. Yup...Papa is my Daddy so far.

And here I insert a completely unrelated comment: VERMONT WON!!!!!! YAY, VERMONT!!!!

Now back to our regularly scheduled Hemingway. I just find so much to like about his writing. I think it takes more skill to write less, if you know what I mean. Hemingway's novels are concentrated. They're carefully constructed; words are deliberately chosen. Connotation is everything. He requires an engaged, attentive reader, which I am not. I'm lazy. I'll admit it: I'm a spoiled, lazy, naughty reader, and I should be spanked hard with a Riverside Shakespeare (and after that, the oral sex!).

Er... Python reference. Couldn't be helped.

Anyway, I'm lazy because I read fast. I find it easy to visualize action in a novel: so easy, in fact, that I can skip entire paragraphs and not lose anything. But with Hemingway, I am forced to pay attention, because every word matters. Nothing is written by accident; nothing is given for free. I work for the story. I sweat for it. And when I finish one of his novels, I feel like I've accomplished something, and I'm damn tired from it. I admire his craftsmanship. I trust him as an author, and I'll go where he leads me -- even if it's someplace not very pleasant.

Faulkner, on the other hand.... Well, as promised, I will reserve judgment. I'm not going to argue that he's a bad writer; I know he's A Great Artist. To me, he's just too...I don't know... rich, maybe? Hemingway's like cool melon on a hot day. Faulkner is double chocolate pound cake with chocolate chips and hot fudge sauce. Way too much for me, and IMHO, marginally overrated.

But then, I'm not a sweet person. I'm spicy. I'm sassy. I'm salacious!!

I'll close for tonight with a shout-out to my lurkers, who I didn't even know were lurking! When I bitchily asked for comments, kids, I was not referring to you. You're obviously sweet, gentle souls; you did not deserve a tongue-lashing. Welcome to my blog. Visit long and comment often.

See? I'm not just salacious. I'm also gracious.

Where is the Love?

Three posts and no comments. C'mon -- I only have three readers total. Can't you put your heads together and say something nice to me once in a while? I read your blogs, so I know you're not doing anything productive. I'm starting to feel lonely {tear} and insecure. Don't let me suffer like this.

I'm not writing another word until I hear a shout-out from my Greek Chorus (or should that be Geek Chorus). Not. One. More. Word.

See?

Good times, Good times

Well, we're just going to chalk yesterday up to the stress of mid-term assessments. Which went fine, btw. So maybe we should call it a celebration.

Funny thing -- young college lads like to get drunk with older women. Those twenty-one year olds found it very amusing to see a woman nearly fifteen years their senior hammered. Excuse me, I did mean HAMMERED. Yeah. I had fun, but when I nearly knocked over two glasses of Bud on the table, I decided it was time to stop. So I pounded another two. Then I decided it was time to stop. So I had another.

Scholar was amused. When I showed up at the library and wrote that awful blog, he had a wry smile on his face that read, "My wife, everyone! Feel my pain." Somehow, the library managed to survive me kicking over a wastebasket and nearly walking into one of those concrete columns (which, btw, are very sturdy and did not give an inch).

Actually, I'm posting for effect. It wasn't that bad. But those boys in my class are gonna hear about it next Tuesday. Getting a poor old lady sloshed -- sheesh! I'm old enough to be their mother (in the North Country, anyway).

I'm old enough to be their mother. Sigh. Where's the beer?

What Not To Do When You're Drunk

You should never blog when you are drunk. It's a bad bad bad bad bad idea, because you never knopw what you're going to say when you're drunk, let alone what you might right -- i mean write. When you are drunk, hat you should do sis stay very very still until the room stops spinnning. Wait until the room is quiet again then take litle tiny step s out of whever you are and try to make it home wthout throwing aup or passing out.

That's what I'm gonna do right now. BYe

Carry that weight

Well, blog-land fans, today is the day. Scholar and I will be heading to the gym, so I can begin to shed the most tenacious personal demon I have ever encountered. I gave up smoking; that was No Big Deal. I don't drink (that much); I have stopped hemorrhaging money. I fill up the gas tank before the car stops completely. I'm actually doing my homework--and let me tell you, school is a lot more stressful when one goes to every class and completes every assignment.

So you see, this is the last devil. This is my Goliath: this weight that I carry. I have been heavy all my life, and I can't say that I hate myself for it. It was my way of dealing with the tremendous sorrow and anger I felt. Heavy feelings=heavy person, and that's just the way it worked for me.

It doesn't work anymore.

That's a beautiful thing, not a misfortune. This shell of flesh that used to protect me is now weighing me down. It has become a burden, where it used to be a comfort. I'm going to think of it like a cocoon, a safe home, a refuge. But butterflies don't live in cocoons; when the time is right, they fight their way free. That's me. It's time.

I have never known the joy of clothes. I don't think thin people can understand this, and my explanation will be inadequate. I've never put on an outfit and felt absolutely certain that I looked good, let alone GOOOOD (wink wink). I want that. I want sweaters in pastel colors; I want strapless dresses and short-sleeved tees. I want a little black dress that swirls when I turn around; I want high-heeled shoes that make my husband drool a little at the corner of his mouth. I want red -- God, do I want red: a crazy, burning red that I can wear without shame. My red will set the world on fire!

I want shopping to be a delight, rather than a reminder that I do not fit into the world. Now, I'm all for the idea that the world should fit me. I hear the women who sing "I'm big and I'm beautiful," and I shout with them Hallelujah and Amen! I could dig in my heels and refuse to budge; I could tell everyone that I must be accepted as I am.

But I don't accept me. Regardless of whether I've been conditioned to it, I don't accept this weight. I want it gone.

So it's going.