Ten full years separate my only sibling and myself. My younger sister and I grew up in the same family home but the decade that separates us created two radically different experiences.
I left home at 17 for the big city and the pursuit of a career as a dancer, having won an apprenticeship at a modern dance company. My sister was seven at the time and thus was raised from that moment on as an only child in essence. By 19 I had moved to Europe, giving up on my dance career for more attainable pursuits in outdoor education and eventually sports therapy.
I lived overseas for ten years, until my sister graduated high school and we both discussed plans to move to the mountains of Colorado. Larissa, accepted a soccer scholarship at a southern Colorado college and I moved to the mountains to further my sports rehab training. During those four years she spent a large part of her summers living with me and during this time we got to know each other in closer quarters.
Now we both live full time in the same mountain town, and the adjustment of two siblings that grew up as only children has not always been smooth. Yet, despite our mutual love of the mountains, both of us working in the world of outdoor education, both of us have studies in the realm of sports (me – sports therapy and conditioning, Larissa – sport psychology), and both of being competitive and aggressive in our own sports…we have never really competed with each other.
She plays team sports, I race in solo events. She likes guys her own age and while we agree on overall attractiveness of men in general…I tend to lean towards older men. Even in appearance she got the sexy curves and I inherited my fathers athletic/boyish figure – so we can’t even fight over clothes!
Competition just doesn’t enter into our relationship.
Except once a year.
Every March finds my sister turning one year older, and me agreeing to do my sisterly duty and get her (and by proxy, myself) smashed. She has adopted my two drinks of choice, Guiness and whiskey, and combined them for a more palatable (to her) concoction – Irish car bombs. Endless rounds of them.
Followed by live music and dancing until the wee hours. This year threw in the added twist of a snowy sprint-off to the last bar of the evening. It would have been a tie, but somehow my graceful coordination let me down and I ended up in a snow bank.
I cried ‘Foul’ – but was overruled.