Another Series: Snapshot from Long Ago

When my younger sister and I were in our late teens, we did not get along. At all. Not even a little bit. I thought she was a spoiled brat who felt entitled and I'm guess she just thought I was a bitch. In actuality, she was a spoiled brat and I could occasionally be a bitch (but only occasionally).

Crissy had lots of clothes. Lots. It was the whole spoiled thing. I, on the other hand, was more practical and just bought what I needed. Plus, I often rationalized, why would I buy a bunch of clothes when she had more than enough. And she didn't seem to notice or care when I did wear her stuff. People like my sister place little  value on actual things, thinking anything is replaceable. If she can't find her yellow shirt, she just goes and buys another one. On the opposite end of the spectrum is me; I will hold on to an item until I can justify getting rid of it. I need to feel like I got the most out of an item. I could be a hoarder but I don't have enough stuff. I'm guessing I was one in another life.

Anyway, while Crissy appeared to be unfazed by my use of her clothes, I could not stand walking in to find her wearing my things. It was enough to send me to another place entirely. My rationale was simple - she had more than enough stuff. Why in the hell would she feel the need to wear my things? And she always picked my favorite items; specifically my batik shirts that were only available at the beach or at Grateful Dead shows!!

One afternoon I came into the house to find my sister sitting on the couch with our neighbor hanging out. On her body was my all time favorite batik shirt. It was a mustard yellow with burgundy accents and went perfectly with my hair. It made me appear mellow and laid back. It made Crissy look trendy. I kinda lost my mind.

When I say I lost my mind, it wasn't in my usual yelling and screaming way. That had little effect to date on her wearing my cool shirts. Instead, I stood quietly, weighing my options. What to do? I could yell and scream, maybe hit her this time. A possibility, but in my mind's eye, I would be perceived as a legitimate bully and I wasn't going to go there. I could tell on her to my mother but quite frankly as the 5th and 6th kids, my mother was plain old tired. No - I decided this time, I would take matters into my own hands.

Calmly, like a psychiatric patient, I went to the drawer and found the scissors. While my sister tossed her head back in a carefree laugh, I walked over and touched her on the arm. She didn't seem to notice or care but as I put the scissors to the sleeve of my favorite shirt, she turned her head and looked at me in horror. As I closed the scissors and listened to the fabric shred, I looked at her and said,  "I'd rather not have this shirt than have you wear it."

Crissy and the neighbor stood there staring at me like I was the craziest person they had ever seen and it's quite possible they were right. But I didn't care. Because guess what? SHE TOOK OFF MY SHIRT!! And never wore it again. I, on the other hand, wore that shirt, with the scissor sliced sleeve for another 3 or 4 years. And I loved every minute of it.