Sometimes I just need reminding that I never really know anything.
Years ago, my sister had been even more unwell than usual; she’d been following a nightmarish, doctor-recommended diet that left her frail and thin. To remedy this, we were learning macrobiotic cooking, and in those circles I’d learned of the upcoming “grand opening” of a new-agey bakery, basically a party. I thought it would be a good way to get my sister out of her apartment for a night, though it was soon clear it hadn’t been my idea at all.
Neither of us really knew anyone at this event. Now that I’d gotten her out of one door and past another -- a rare and somewhat frustrating feat -- I had no plan other than to basically lay low and observe. But seconds inside, I turned to see my sister standing there with her mouth agape. “Oh my God,” I said, with my usual level of sisterly tolerance, “what’s the matter now?” She was staring far into the back of the long room, where wildly dressed people danced wildly.
Without a trace of embarrassment, she stretched out her arm and pointed directly at the most wildly dressed, most wildly leaping, long-haired man, far off in the center of the action.
“HIM,” she intoned, stock-still and zombielike. “I want HIM.”
What?
Still pointing, she repeated her words in a trance: “I want HIM.”
I won’t sugarcoat my reaction here, much as I’d like to. I looked from the leaping hippie, clearly young and strong and in peak health, to my frail, plainly attired sister, whose true powers I hadn’t nearly begun to suspect. “OH MY GOD,” I said, “I can’t take you anywhere.” In true big-sister-know-it-all fashion, I stood glaring, taking on the embarrassment I felt should have been hers.
Only minutes later, I had to swallow it all.
My sister having dutifully put her attention elsewhere, I continued my watch-and-observe tactic and after awhile glanced back to see a shocking sight: the hippie had stopped leaping. In the very center of the wild dancers, he was staring, stock-still and zombielike, at my sister.
It was a moment to witness, I tell you. And obviously a much-needed lesson for a sour bit player like me.
I apologized to my sister immediately and pointed out that the object of her desire was now looking at her. And I got out of the way.
They met that night and, after some weeks needed for him to shed various wild-dressing women, went out for the first time. I think it was ten days later that they were married (tofu wedding cake), and they were together for the rest of her life.
So much for big sister know-it-alls.
Years ago, my sister had been even more unwell than usual; she’d been following a nightmarish, doctor-recommended diet that left her frail and thin. To remedy this, we were learning macrobiotic cooking, and in those circles I’d learned of the upcoming “grand opening” of a new-agey bakery, basically a party. I thought it would be a good way to get my sister out of her apartment for a night, though it was soon clear it hadn’t been my idea at all.
Neither of us really knew anyone at this event. Now that I’d gotten her out of one door and past another -- a rare and somewhat frustrating feat -- I had no plan other than to basically lay low and observe. But seconds inside, I turned to see my sister standing there with her mouth agape. “Oh my God,” I said, with my usual level of sisterly tolerance, “what’s the matter now?” She was staring far into the back of the long room, where wildly dressed people danced wildly.
Without a trace of embarrassment, she stretched out her arm and pointed directly at the most wildly dressed, most wildly leaping, long-haired man, far off in the center of the action.
“HIM,” she intoned, stock-still and zombielike. “I want HIM.”
What?
Still pointing, she repeated her words in a trance: “I want HIM.”
I won’t sugarcoat my reaction here, much as I’d like to. I looked from the leaping hippie, clearly young and strong and in peak health, to my frail, plainly attired sister, whose true powers I hadn’t nearly begun to suspect. “OH MY GOD,” I said, “I can’t take you anywhere.” In true big-sister-know-it-all fashion, I stood glaring, taking on the embarrassment I felt should have been hers.
Only minutes later, I had to swallow it all.
My sister having dutifully put her attention elsewhere, I continued my watch-and-observe tactic and after awhile glanced back to see a shocking sight: the hippie had stopped leaping. In the very center of the wild dancers, he was staring, stock-still and zombielike, at my sister.
It was a moment to witness, I tell you. And obviously a much-needed lesson for a sour bit player like me.
I apologized to my sister immediately and pointed out that the object of her desire was now looking at her. And I got out of the way.
They met that night and, after some weeks needed for him to shed various wild-dressing women, went out for the first time. I think it was ten days later that they were married (tofu wedding cake), and they were together for the rest of her life.
So much for big sister know-it-alls.
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