it was one of those conversation/storytelling/rememberings that easily flowed from one episode to another.
oh, you’ve had them: you get started talking about your school project…
which leads to talking about the group involved in said project…
which led you talking about that one particular girl in the group that dyed her hair burgundy…
which led your mom to talk about her hereditary grey streak she dyes over…
which leads you to talk about the fact that you (yes, you!) have a couple of white hairs (which are stress-induced, of course)…
which leads your dad to say something like “at least you have hair!”…
which leads your mom to talk about how much hair he’s lost his recently and how he is starting to look like his uncle johnny.
(um, that was purely hypothetical situation.)
(purely.)
last night was one of those. here’s (what i like to call) the “conversation timeline.”
traveling with a lot of people on vacation –> car caravaning –> walk-talkie/sign communication between cars –> signs for bathroom –> certain family members having to “go” more than others –> how some family members are annoyed while others are trying not to wet themselves –>
and that’s when one particular memory about my sister and me smacked my memory.
and it hit my sister, too.
i smile, opening my mouth to share this particularly funny story…
now, if it were only my mom, my dad, me and her at the dinner table yesterday evening, she would have looked at me and smiled, and started to laugh, and share her side of the story, while i would have looked at her and smiled, and started to laugh, and share my side of the story, and it would have been a funny, lovely, “oh-remember-when” moment that all families have when remember stories that weren’t-funny-then-but-are-hilarious-now.
but as we simultaneously remembered this specific story, and as my mouth smiled and opened to share our mutual experience, my sister’s eyes darted across the table to where my kinda-newly-acquired boyfriend was sitting (trying to absorb the insaneness which is my family. poor boy.).
and instead of smiling, instead of sharing, instead of giving me that knowing, amused look, she proceeded to…
shoot me the look of death.
her hand whipped from her lap, her elbow planting securely on table. she leaned over, and with her finger aiming directly at me… eyes on fire… she commanded:
“don’t you dare!”
it took me aback for just a moment. i re-smirked.
“no!” was her response.
i began to open my mouth and say something like, “we were in line at disney world…”
and that’s all it took.
“IT WASN’T MY FAULT!”
and then the story exploded from her own lips.
it was beautiful.
of course, the story ended up being twisted. something about it being all my fault that she… well… nevermind.
that is her version of the story. isn’t sympathetic to me at all.
i continue to cling to my innocence. i mean, it’s not my fault she… well…
nevermind.
)