I grew up among sisters. I was daughter number four. I relied heavily on those three older sisters to steer me in the right direction, provide me with entertainment, clue me in on the latest cool things to say, keep me informed on what not to wear and so on.
The three oldest girls were born in three consecutive years. Several more years passed before I came along.
So, in a sense, I was sort of in the middle of no man’s land, and I firmly believed I had been born with a whole lot of catching up to do. I wanted to know how to work and how to play, so I stayed tuned in to every nuance of my big sisters’ lives. It served me well.
When my sisters had friends over, I felt certain they could never have entertained them to such a wonderful degree if I were not there, orchestrating and emulating their every move, throwing in a joke or two for good measure. I learned the songs and the dance moves and was always ready for what was yet to happen.
I was something between a shadow and a very annoying glue stick. No amount of shaking could cut me loose from the crowd.
The day arrived when the friends who came over were no longer just girls. My oldest sister suddenly had a boyfriend. Just in case she hadn’t reached this realization, I sang the “k-i-s-s-i-n-g” song for her. Repeatedly.
I have a sense that at some point my oldest sister asked my father to intervene. “Hey, kiddo, your mother and I have to go away this afternoon. I hear that Steve is coming over to see Sandie.”
I nodded and stuck my nose slightly into thin air, feeling haughty. I have no idea whatsoever just what I was feeling so haughty about, but felt Dad was missing the point that Steve might be coming to visit me, too.
“I have a suggestion for you. Steverino doesn’t deserve to have you entertaining him. If I were you, I would not even give that guy the time of day,” Dad advised me.
Sure enough, Steve arrived. He pretended to ignore me, though I knew he was dying to have me sit close and gaze into his eyes. I decided to follow my father’s advice and play it cool. This time, Steve would be wishing for the wise and witty me to return.
I was outside, jumping rope, riding my bike up and down the sidewalk, trying desperately to remain within earshot of every single thing that Stunning Steve might have to say as he sat on the porch with my sister. But, boy, was I giving him the cold shoulder. I decided I was pretty good at it.
Sure enough, a couple hours into this extremely boring Sunday afternoon, Steve could no longer stand being ignored by me. “Hey, Shorty! What time is it?”
I kept right on listening to the card that I had attached to my bicycle wheel make beautiful music as I pedaled lickety-split down the sidewalk. “Shorty! Hey! I really do need to know what time it is!”
I made a grand display, pedaling my bright blue Schwinn with the banana seat down that sidewalk, slamming on the brakes as I steered expertly to the left.
I barely gave that guy a glance as I said, coolly, “Dad said I shouldn’t even give you the time of day, so I guess you’re on your own, buddy.”
More than 50 years have passed. They are still laughing at me.
