Post-Crisis, Pre-Thirty

Dear Blogging Community Who Patiently Deals With My Oft-Sporadic Posts,

I'm giving you a fair warning.

December is going to be batsh*t crazy.

I looked at my calendar for the month of December, and there are TWO (yes, TWO) days where I have absolutely nothing planned.

And I already turned down a housewarming, a Christmas party, a baby shower, and plans with my own mother because I was starting to feel crazed.

I'm grateful for the busy-ness, of course, and most everything planned is fun. Some is not so much "not fun" as it is sort of "chore-like;" but awesome chores like, "Get international driver's license." That's a pretty sweet chore to have on your list, don'tcha think?

Last night, I had the opportunity to watch the "Monumental Occasion" 40th lighting of the Washington Monument in Mt. Vernon from the newly-erected roof balcony of the building where Donna's used to be before the terrible fire last year. A friend of mine from high school (who is basically awesome) scored invites for herself, The Gentleman, and me. Open bar, catering by Donna's, heaters keeping us all warm, and the best view of the monument in town. Not only that, it was fascinating to be inside the building where they are now renovating so Donna's can reopen post-fire. It's such an old, beautiful building and was thankfully saved from complete destruction. Because this friend is an architecture nerd, we got to learn a lot about the interior of the building and the plans for its future. Also awesome.

In catching up with this friend, she told me that she reads Ye Olde Blog religiously, and how the content change over the years has made her feel like there's a sense of watching transformation. That meant a lot to me.

Three years ago, I was lamenting boy drama and crying about my future onto this blog. Which made it highly readable (and now, highly embarrassing...kind of like having your high school diary published in the yearbook). Now, the high highs and low lows of life seem to have evened out a bit more into a general sense of happiness about life, my blogging gets kind of sporadic.

I once had a guy I dated ask me if I was ever happy (I guess he meant content), would I stop finding things to write about? I guess I like to think that in my happiness, it's not so much that I don't have anything to write about, it's just that I have different things to write about. It's not about failed relationships, career mishaps, and the rocky life of a twentysomething feeling like the victim all the time.

What is this about? Well, I'm still the same emotional, highly neurotic person I always was, my life is just ten times better now. I still cry senselessly in public, embarrassing The Gentleman, and I certainly still do stupid things, like getting a hot stone massage while hungover and sunburned in Vegas.

If there's one thing I could say to the earlier me, to the me that was in years past, it would be this: you will become exactly the person you want to be, for better or worse. You'll make decisions you never thought you'd make, you'll wind up living a life you thought you couldn't have here or now or in the here and now, and above all- you will reclaim that unquenchable thirst for life that drives you to rebuild houses in post-Katrina New Orleans and snorkel with sharks in the Keys. And run a half marathon. And sign up for another.

It's not really a blog about the quarter life crisis anymore (especially because I'm six months away from 30, so damn well better not be!), or about awkward dates and failed jobs, and started and stalled careers. There's nothing to say it won't revert back to any of these things at any time, because - let's face it - the economy means no one's job is safe and I still stare quizzically at The Gentleman trying to figure out where along the line I got so lucky as to land this guy. But it's more than that now. Somewhere in there, when the drama of things that seemed so huge at the time began to fade away and I made decisions that made me feel confident, my real life began. The one I thought I was meant to be living a long time ago. The one it took many twisted paths to find. I think that feeling is universal to anyone who's tripped and stumbled and somehow regained footing. I certainly don't feel like my experience was unique in any way. I'm just the one who wrote about it publicly.

And now my days are filled with running, with working my ass off at a non-profit where I hungrily devour new projects that require me to do things like learn web design and write grants, eating and drinking my way around Baltimore, watching American Horror Story (amazeballs!), planning our trip to Amman and Istanbul, laughing with Book Club and good friends, and spending time with the best guy I have ever been lucky enough to meet.

So yeah, a lot of things have changed. Damn well for the better.

And now, onto December. READYSETGO!

Next Stop, Vegas Please- Part II

Lest you think I spent the entire trip sulking like an Angsty Party Girl, allow me to speak briefly of the high points of the trip (drinks with Harvey "Celeb Fit Club Trainer" notwithstanding).

THE DIGS:
Catalano's dad scored us a sweet time share. It really was delightful; three bedrooms (I think...there might have been four...it was a confusing weekend), kitchen, dining area, living room, three (or four?) full bathrooms, and a sweet jacuzzi. Mrs. Spaz and I put our bathing suits on and occupied said jacuzzi one evening with a bottle of wine. It was truly magic. The best part about having a kitchen (aside from the fact that we turned it into our own makeshift bar where drinks went for the hefty price of FREE) was the ability to have food on-hand. If Legs hadn't stocked the fridge and cupboards, I believe it's entirely likely we might have forgotten to eat all weekend. Except for....


THE EATS:
Oh God, the eats. We went to Happy Hour at Koi on Friday night and had some lovely sushi rolls at half price (half price being nine bucks a pop). This was lovely, but nothing compared to the two buffets we devastated.

On Saturday we went to brunch (at 3pm, mind you...) at the Bellagio. I am well aware that there are starving people in this world; that countries are pained for fresh water and fresh eats. I felt guilty for a full four minutes until I popped a salmon mousse tart into my mouth and finally clued into the fact that there is a time and a place for human compassion, and a sensitivity for world hunger has to be checked at the door of the Bellagio along with any tight-fitting pants you might deign wear. I wore what I referred to as my "Eatin' Dress," which comfortably allows for some serious eating.

I mean, serious. Sushi, rack of lamb, prime rib, ahi poke, Kobe beef, steamed pork buns, pizza, Beef Wellington...it just went on and on. When one conjures images of buffets, it's usually of overcooked, overstarched college food sitting out to bake into oblivion under heat lamps. This is not that.

Cocktail shrimp posed sexily on mountains of slivered ice molded to look like bowls. Grilled quail splayed on a bed of rosemary. The whole thing was nothing short of food porn- and all of it up for grabs. (Although Legs's sister did comment that my mom's Beef Wellington is better than the Bellagio's...a compliment she took as the highest of praise, and rightfully so.)

And the desserts.

Oh, the desserts.

Everything dressed up to look like designer couture, complete with hardware. Chocolate buttons, marzipan bows, edible gold etching. These desserts made other desserts look like trusty farm hands. I shall now scoff at things like Milano cookies, which are overweight and clumsy compared to the slivers of shortbread and chocolate delicately placed headfirst into an air-whipped bed of chocolate mousse.

Sunday, we hit up the famous Spice Market in Planet Hollywood. Same deal with the "Eatin' Dress." Same deal with the ridiculousness. I wish I had brought three extra stomachs with me. I would have gladly paid Delta to check them.

THE AMENITIES:
I'm well aware of the dangers of skin cancer. I know that tanning is a blight upon humanity and has even prompted legislation (the "Anti-Snookie" bill preventing teenagers from tanning and asking for higher taxes on tanning services) .

I KNOW THIS.

However.

One of my most favorite things is Lying Out With A Book. I'm like a cat. Give me a puddle of sun, a nice towel, and I'm in it to win it. And our hotel came with a gorgeous outdoor pool. Multiple pools, in fact, and one very nicely reserved for "Adults Only," and outfitted with a tiki bar. My kinda place.

I probably laid out in the sun for all of three combined hours this weekend and walked with a tan like the one I got after four days in Ocean City last summer.

Why?

Well, funny you should ask. My masseuse (I'll get to that...) informed me: "Enjoying that sun? Don't stay out there too long. There's no smog here, you know. Nothing to block pure sun rays. Coming straight through. You'll burn in less than ten minutes."

It was at that moment that I realized that Vegas, despite being disgustingly full of sin, is a delightfully clean city.

Say what you will about hookers and gambling, there ain't no smog. Or grime. Sure, the tap water tastes a bit off (it is the desert), but after having spent a lifetime on the east coast and four years in what is ranked one of the dirtiest cities in America (sorry, Baltimore...) it was rather a treat to breathe in a lungful of humidity- and smog-free air.

So, the pool. The laying out. Oh, the luxury. Which leads me to....

THE COUPLES' MASSAGE:
Mrs. Spaz and I, and Catalano and her sister opted for the couples' massage package that included a hot stone session. Nevermind that it was couples' massage. It was a deal we weren't gonna pass up, and no one asked any questions about the all-girl pairings.

And there was nothing even remotely romantic about it, believe you me.

Our masseuses were a pair of what I assumed to be sisters, bred of the same football coach stock and hailing from Flatbush. And, lemme tell you, while I'm sure either of them could crush my very being between her pinky and ring finger, they had the lightest touch of any masseuse I've ever had. Which was good. Because they took one look at us, raised their twin eyebrows, and said, "We are not going to do the deep tissue."

"Why not?" we pestered.

"It releases too many....toxins." They eyed us up and down. Hungover and guilty, we were.

Let me tell you things you should not do before getting a hot stone massage. First and foremost, nobody should be getting a massage after two days of hellish behavior in Vegas. Talk about toxins released. Secondly, nobody should be getting a message after falling asleep in aforementioned direct sunlight for an hour after two days of hellish behavior in Vegas.

You know that sick, cold sweat, headachey feeling you get from sunburn-slash-heatstroke? Combine that with severe self-induced dehydration, and then lie- FACE DOWN- on a massage table and have someone put hot stones on your back.

Oh, the torture.

I paid someone fifty bucks to put burning hot stones on my sunburned back, thus causing me to sweat out what I can only assume was pure champagne and sin.

IT WAS NOT PLEASANT.

I saw black spots before my eyes for roughly two hours afterward. A shaft of sunlight came in through the hotel window, and I shuddered and curled up in the corner. If anyone had approached me at that point, I might have yelled "I PUT THE LOTION ON MY SKIN."

Stay tuned for Part III.

Next Stop, Vegas Please- Part I

There's not too much I can say about Vegas that hasn't been said by any of the nearly 40 million people that grace the Strip each year. It's flashing LCD lights, it's quick, it's loud, it's nonstop, and it's pure spectacle.

Thankfully, so are we.

The first night, we went to Tao. It was shoulder-to-shoulder packed, and from the looks of it, most patrons had given up any sense of attempting social graces and commenced immediate lap-sitting purely to save space.

But somehow, we began graduating upwards in the club. First, we were being Night-at-the-Roxbury'd down on the dance floor, then somehow a velvet rope was lifted, and our group was escorted onto the second, less-crowded tier. The one populated by bottle service and paid dancers.

$9 for a domestic bottle later, another rope was lifted and we found ourselves in this dude's VIP lounge. I used to be addicted to Celebrity Fit Club. Seriously. Taking in bottle service with Harvey was pretty high on my list of top moments this past weekend. Say what you will about random celebs, at least they let you drink their free booze in a place where a vodka soda will run you a stifling $12 a pop (before tip).

Eventually we tired of the oomf oomf oomf and Katy Perry remixes and decided to head to the casino. In my mind, it was probably around 1 or 2am. I had forgotten two things:
1. We'd gotten into Vegas around 11pm. Then gone to dinner. Then gone out.
2. Nothing ever closes in Vegas.

It wasn't 1 or 2am. It was probably closer to 4:30 when we left the club. Which, given that we had all just flown in, was approximately 7:30am to our internal clocks.

At approximately 8:00am EST, a friend from Baltimore called me, not knowing I was in Vegas.

"Hey! I know it's early, but I just HAD to tell you before you head in to work-"

"WHAT?"

"I said I know it's early, but I had to tell you what happened-"

"WHAT TIME IS IT?"

"Um, like 7:50, why? Aren't you getting ready for work?"

"WHAT DAY IS IT?"

"What? Where are you?"

"A CASINO. IN VEGAS. IT'S 8AM THERE????"

"Um, yeah..."

"I HAVEN'T GONE TO BED YET. I HAVE BEEN UP FOR 27 HOURS."

Such is Vegas.

Day Two was also a blur of activity. I think we all got a whopping 4.5 hours of what I'm sure was completely rejuvenating sleep before we headed to the pool. I might have gotten a nap in between the shot Catalano's sister got us and the pina coladas. Maybe.

After the pool...off to Planet Hollywood to blow some cash. I was out of chips within about five minutes of getting to the casino and clearly didn't know The Rules of playing roulette. The dealer kept barking commands at me, and I felt shifty and uncomfortable. I didn't know any secrets or classy lingo. I just put chips down and she took them away from me and the freakishly affectionate couple next to me kept winning things. The whole thing made me angry, and so I stormed off to the penny slots where I proceeded to immediately lose five dollars.

Devastated.

I'd been filled with thoughts of cashing out, walking out of Vegas with pockets stuffed with cash. COME ON, THAT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME.

I'm still getting over it.

What happened next is a blur of insomniac-like haze (you know, when you haven't slept in 2 days and you start to feel like you housed a bottle of NyQuil). There was dinner at Koi. There was champagne. There was the Getting Ready (the best part of traveling and living with girls- the Getting Ready), there was an intense discussion of which strip club to take Catalano, there was a limo, there was more champagne, and then there was a Very Rude Stripper.

I did not want to go to the strip club.

I did not want to go to the strip club, and I was tired and cranky.

I made this very evident by sitting in a chair and emitting the word "huff." Arms crossed. Someone, I think Mrs. Spaz, gave me some more champagne, which briefly placated me. And then I got angry again when Very Rude Stripper came over and began using my chair as a dance pole.

"Hey," he purred, leaning in to me. "What's your sign?"

"Gemini," I barked. I did not like this shaven-greased-up-man-dude, but I didn't know yet that he was Very Rude, and so I was only mildly bitchy towards him.

"I'm a Taurus. We get along." At this point, Very Rude Stripper was now straddling me, his mouth very near my neck. This was Uncomfortable. I did not like this.

"You want a dance?" he breathed into my ear. I became Very Angry. And Very Grossed Out.

He was clearly having quite a good time, whereas I was the one suffering. And so, I calmly informed him: "You should pay me."

Very Rude Stripper did not like this one bit. In fact, he disliked this so much, he nipped me on the neck.

HE BIT ME.

VERY RUDE STRIPPER BIT ME.

I believe this might have been the moment that pushed me over the edge. I spiraled from Angsty Party Girl straight into Three-Year-Old-Tantrum.

I believe we left shortly afterwards.

Stay tuned for Part II.

Shake the Glitter Off Your Clothes

(Insert random photo here.)

As soon as I get all of the casino chips out of my suitcase, find my liver (which I'm pretty sure I might have left floating in the jacuzzi), and get more than five hours of sleep, I shall post (some) of the ridiculousness. A quick perusal of my Twitter feed should tell you all you need to know at this point.

Except for the part where the stripper bit me.

Yes, that happened.

Viva Las Vegas.

Gimme Some Cash Out

In preparation for the Vegas trip, the group has amassed key survival materials/strategies.

1. Leg's sister went to Costco and purchased a case of 5-Hour Energy, and a case of some fizzy powder packets containing tiger blood and the sum caffeine of forty seven cups of coffee per packet that is meant to be added to a glass of water. In sum total, we now have over 270 Hours of Energy to be doled out amongst the pack. I believe this will be enough, given that we will be in Las Vegas for 65 hours.

2. Fake eyelashes. I can't underscore the vast difference a pair of falsies makes in pictures. If done right, (that is, cut those spiders in half and only apply on the OUTSIDE of your upper lash) it's possible to bypass anything that smacks of cross-dressing and be tasteful and subtle boosts to what nature already blessed you with. I once had a roommate that swore that a modest set of chicken cutlets (I think you know what I mean by that) had the same effect.

3. En masse, we have invested many hours of crucially analyzing outfit choice. Our methods of rating ranged from "Kim Kardashian" to "Dirty Pirate Hooker" to "Little House on the Prairie." As you can imagine, any outfit that shied away from these categories was entered into the final round before cuts were made based on similarity to someone else's outfit, packability, and versatility. No one can say we aren't practical. And, we can all sleep soundly knowing we avoided the embarrassing moment of running into a Lady of the Night wearing the same outfit; by the same token, no one will confuse us for a Half Pint.

4. Cameras, and strict rules upon how to use them. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas; unless it's Facebook-worthy. And even then, it must go through strict Channels of Approval before posting, and even then, there must be explicit permission granted before anyone goes tagging willy-nilly. This isn't a free-for-all, and several of my friends have sneaky, paparazzi-tendencies to take questionable photos of people doing questionable things. Any by "several of my friends," I primarily mean "me."

5. I promised my parents today that I would kindly only post certain aspects of the trip on my blog. This kind of outright, anti-First Amendment, gross censorship is completely and utterly OK by me and I fully support this. If I wouldn't tell my parents, it sure as hell doesn't belong here.

6. That having been said, I'm still disappointed in the fast "No Hookers" rule. I'm still arguing my point that no one needs to engage in anything other than research. I just want to hear some stories! And who would have better stories than a Vegas hooker? Even a retired one! Ooooh- a retired one would be even better. I would be curious to know how she spends her days. Yoga? Transcendental meditation? Teaching those pole-dancing classes that are so hot in every fitness center in the US right now? Cooking? I MUST KNOW.

And so, Glitteratis, tomorrow Book Club takes its show on the road and migrates, en masse, out to Vegas. 270 hours of energy, and fake eyelashes batting away....and nary a petticoat or hot pant in sight. We are pure class.

Mostly.

One Week to Vegas

Since 2007, Book Club has been the axis around which my social world has spun.

No, really.

The idea was conceived when I met Catalano. She and I were bridesmaids in Mrs. Spaz's wedding, and met shortly after I'd moved to the city from Florida. I knew very few people outside of a couple of college friends. Catalano had moved back to Maryland from Los Angeles a few months prior and was still single at the time. Shortly after I met her, she began dating her now-fiance.

I'd had a small book club in Tampa that met every few weeks for wine and gelato at an Italian cafe near my house. Catalano was keen on the idea to start our own book club in Baltimore, and volunteered a couple of her college friends and roommates. We started out as a core group of about seven girls. Five of those girls are still active book club members, nearly four years later.

Book Club began as a Tuesday-night affair, every two weeks. But, as the wine and gossip began to flow more heavily, Tuesday nights spilled into Thursday nights, Friday nights, Saturday nights. A couple of girls dropped out and, seeking new members, we placed a cheeky ad on Craigslist. Jaunt, who had recently moved to Baltimore from Pennsylvania, found said ad. She agreed to meet us, and we came up with an exit strategy should she turn out to be creepy. After all, who the hell answers an ad for a boozy Book Club on Craigslist? We were certain Jaunt would turn out to be a strapping bachelor in his mid-5o's with a delightful comb-over and a pocketful of double-entendres and invitations to his "beach house."

"If s/he's creepy," we agreed, "Book Club ends in thirty minutes, we all ditch him/her, and join up at the bar down the street."

Instead, we got Jaunt. Who is now, happily, my new roommate.

We picked up other girls as well. Some stalked Book Club through my blog, some came on as referrals from other members, and some (like Joel) simply happened to see a bunch of girls being loud and obnoxious on a Tuesday night in a wine bar and arguing over modern feminism and decided he must be a part of the action. (Joel is still the brave, sole male in Book Club. Whenever we go out to dinner, it's Joel and eight girls. I think he's quite proud of this fact.)

As Book Club became less "club" and more "urban family unit," we tossed around the idea of going on vacation, unofficially as a group. We've done weekends in Ocean City, but a few years back someone dropped the idea of Vegas and it's sort of floated around in our miasma for awhile.

And then Catalano got engaged.

Two words: Bachelorette. Party.

Hence, Book Club Goes to Vegas. While not an officially sanctioned vacation, and sadly not everyone was able to go, it's still the culmination of years of friendship here in Baltimore. I've done just about everything with these girls; from running errands to meeting past and current boyfriend(s), or Friday night dance parties at the gay club to weekends at the beach. Moving to the city was a lonely, difficult, startling experience. Finding this group of friends changed everything for me and, I think, for most of them as well.

In preparation for Vegas, emails have been flying. And, as is only appropriate, a list of Rules is being drafted bit by bit. So far, the following have been established:
1. I am not to let Mrs. Spaz out of my sight, as per Mr. Spaz's orders. This is the blind leading the blind as Mrs. Spaz and I have been known to rile one another up into tailspins of terrible behavior.
2. Catalano and I are not to let Legs fall down or lose her purse. This will be a full time job.
3. No hookers. Dead or alive. (I argued mightily against this one. How fun would it be to pool our cash, hire a hooker, have her come to our room and tell us her life story and/or secrets of the Vegas underground while we drink champagne and compliment her on her Lucite heels? I was overruled. Lame.)
4. No tigers. Dead or alive.
5. If your fellow teammate is passed out, apply sun screen for her. She'll thank you later.

Other rules to be drafted, voted upon, and established upon arrival.

I can't wait.

Well Hello There, 2011!

"2010 was a...'Rebuilding Year'," Jaunt said to me last night. It came out with a mix of affection and exhaustion with a slight pause to emphasize that, for all of us it seems, 2010 was a bit of a tornado that picked us up and dropped us off in some entirely different location then where we started the year. Some of us a little more scathed then others, but mostly in one piece.

To call it a "Rebuilding Year" is entirely accurate and, because it's Jaunt, it's also a quite intelligible and poetic way of referring to said tornado. I've felt more change in the air- with friends, family, and the world at large. Change is riddled with difficulty, excitement, and a certain degree of learning when to dig your heels in and when to simply let go and allow the winds to whip you as they will.

In 2010, I went to New Orleans and helped rebuild a little corner of it. I started running and completed 4 5ks and the marathon relay. I started a new job with a nonprofit whose work makes me proud and is fulfilling to me in a way I didn't know a career could be. I got simultaneously angry at the state of affairs in this city that's become my home and elated that there is change happening on so many levels to address things. I went back to one of my favorite past times- kayaking, and explored waterways in Annapolis, the Eastern Shore, and Gun Powder. I reconnected with some old friends, made some new ones, and had more fun with my big band of merry girlfriends then really should be legal.

And I watched change in my friends too. I watched broken hearts and new beginnings, big moves, engagements, break-ups, marriages, pregnancies, new jobs, sicknesses and healths. I've started paying more attention to these things, realizing that our problems are shifting as we are all getting older. The things that are most important to you begin to change over time, and the things that bothered us in the past begin to fall away a little easier with these shifts in priorities.

And 2011? Well, if 2010 was the "Rebuilding Year," then perhaps 2011 is the year to experiment with our new selves. Test the steadiness of the foundation, feel the strength of new roots. Shift the focus away from the skeletons we've been building and start to flesh out the aesthetics a little more. Begin to move around and enjoy the fruits of our labors. Face new issues, build stronger safety measures, and perhaps use some of our newfound architecture as a launch pad.

I don't really have any grandiose resolutions- aside from the fact that I intend to train for and run the half-marathon in October- but I do promise to go a little easier on myself. After so many years of breaking and bending and testing, I want to live 2011 a little more comfortably in my own skin. Don't we all?

Cheers, 2011.

Sleepovers

I don't have any sisters, which is a point of contention that will most likely arise in therapy at some point in my life. My charmed life ended when I was 3 1/2 and my parents brought home my baby brother, thus rudely ripping the center of attention away from me. Growing up, I was always 100% sure that if they had brought home a girl, my life would feel more complete. Girls didn't attempt to hijack Barbie sessions with war games. Girls didn't hit back. Girls never tagged along after my friends and I, ruthlessly challenging my already-shaky status of "cool."

So I thought.

I never had any sisters, but I did have girlfriends. And we had sleepovers. Pizza, junk food, movies, dirty jokes, and whispers deep into the night. I was convinced that if I'd had a sister, every night would be like a sleepover. Doing each others' hair, painting each others' nails, discussing whether or not Whatshisface would ask me to dance at Whatshisotherface's bar mitzvah or if the band teacher was really dating the English teacher and, if so, were they like Ross and Rachel from that hit new show Friends? These were important matters.

Sleepovers were reserved for birthdays, summer nights, and the occasional blizzard. Every now and again I would find a friend with whom we could stretch one sleepover into two or three (especially in the summer time when parental authority was a bit more lax, and the opportunity to send a child over to someone else's house to play was welcome.) But, for the most part, they were rare and anticipated. Like Christmas.

I've recently had a lot of out-of-town houseguests, all of them girlfriends from various walks of life, and so I've been enjoying the influx of sleepovers. Even in our late-twenties-early-thirties, the lights going out signals moments of confession and whispered discussion that pushes far later into the night than anyone anticipated. Only now, our sleepovers are catered with dark chocolate and wine instead of Oreos and Diet Coke, and the subjects we discuss span heavier issues about big decisions, careers, and frightening aspects of adult life that are often too fearful to face alone.

These sleepovers still bolster me, and I have come to realize how these longtime friends of mine are, in a way, sisters of mine. Biologically I was blessed with a younger brother who makes me laugh and knows precisely how to get under my skin. But in my walks of life, I have been blessed with the presence of females who have been friends for many years and with whom I've shared countless sleepovers.

Anyone with siblings will tell you that the grass is always greener in terms of having a brother or sister, and it's entirely possible that a sister would have driven me batshit crazy. I certainly no longer romanticize the idea of having a biological sister, and I've long since come to terms with the fact that my childhood was mostly complete despite my lack of a kind, older sister who would braid my hair, loan me clothes, and pull me into the popular circles at school.

That and the fact that I never got a pony.