Of all the siblings in the universe, you won't find a pair closer than my sister and I.
 |
| Guess who's older |
You also probably won't find a better example of polar opposites.
She buys Coach. I make bags from yard sale scraps. She's chatty. I'm taciturn. She writes about living in a sprawling metropolis. I write about cosplay (her reaction: "what the eff is cosplay?") She's a fashionista. I'm a... well. You know.
I don't think a visit goes by where one of us won't turn to the other and ask, "Are you sure we're related?"
But despite the differences, there is one thing that convinces me, without a doubt, that we most definitely come from the same parentage.
We're both oddly keen on pain.
Mas·och·ism ['masəˌkizəm]
- The tendency to derive pleasure from one's own pain or humiliation.
- The enjoyment of what appears to be painful or tiresome
Both she and I studied engineering in college, apparently having independently joined the same cult that demands fealty by way of self-induced mental deterioration. Now she works in finance for a giant douchenozzle that she lovingly refers to as "bosshole", while I regularly enjoy 3 AM calls from the manufacturing production line, reminding me that I have to be on site in an hour to watch an experiment.
Believe you me, though. It goes well beyond the mental.
You see, dear readers, my father, getting on in age as he is, has started to become more prone to old man rants. From the NRSA to the use of "evil" oils in processed foods to vehemently nagging us about not wearing clothing appropriate to our age, nothing is off the table. Particularly during the nagging portions, my sister and I have prudently learned not to dissent, though keeping the ire buried deep can get a bit taxing at times. So how do we cope?
It's a pretty simple thing. Any time one of us thinks it's getting to be a bit much, we give a slight signal, and the other sister will administer a swift, but effective pinch to the softest part of the forearm. And just for that split second, through the bittersweet, sometimes briefly searing pain, we are distracted for along enough that our tolerance meter is reset.
P3 is a practice that she and I instituted long ago, though its intent has changed some since its original conception.
Being about 10 years apart in age, my sister reached the age of teenage rebellion a bit sooner than I did. Semi-recognizing this, she asked me to do her a favor - any time she was acting snippier than was appropriate, could I pinch her arm to keep her in check?
I'd like to think that I was pretty benevolent, but let's not kid ourselves. I probably abused that power like the little turd that I was.
Strangely enough - she never got that upset with me. Aside from a few dirty glances, I never got yelled at.
That's because she knew. Oh, god, she was just biding her time until I got to the age...
The first time I came home from college, I got properly tetchy with my folks. Oh, I had tasted sweet, sweet independence, and returning to the Tiger life was less than ideal. Before I knew it, I was silently offering my tender flesh up for the P3. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. I had graduated from childhood and had become her ally. (And I'm guessing that she got just the teeny tiniest bit of schadenfreude out of it.)
It's evolved since then. Still, it's a way to keep each other in check, but we usually silently request it of the other versus it being a reactionary thing. Furthermore, the art of it has evolved as well. It used to be slightly more overt. She would nudge me, give me a quick but meaningful look, and then slowly twist her arm upward.
Since then, we have ascended to near Vulcan/Sister Mind-Meld prowess. Occasionally, without even really glancing at each other, without any prompting, we will reach under the table, and do this:
Some sisters have a secret handshake. We just have a pact.
Until the next.
Tired of all those infuriating family functions? Have you had it up to your ears listening to people talk about conspiracy theories? Do you need just a split-second break to take you away from the stress of the day?
Well, have we got the perfect escapism for you!
The Lai Sisters proudly present: Pressure-Perfect Pinch.
It's a pretty simple thing. Any time one of us thinks it's getting to be a bit much, we give a slight signal, and the other sister will administer a swift, but effective pinch to the softest part of the forearm. And just for that split second, through the bittersweet, sometimes briefly searing pain, we are distracted for along enough that our tolerance meter is reset.
P3 is a practice that she and I instituted long ago, though its intent has changed some since its original conception.
Being about 10 years apart in age, my sister reached the age of teenage rebellion a bit sooner than I did. Semi-recognizing this, she asked me to do her a favor - any time she was acting snippier than was appropriate, could I pinch her arm to keep her in check?
I'd like to think that I was pretty benevolent, but let's not kid ourselves. I probably abused that power like the little turd that I was.
Strangely enough - she never got that upset with me. Aside from a few dirty glances, I never got yelled at.
That's because she knew. Oh, god, she was just biding her time until I got to the age...
The first time I came home from college, I got properly tetchy with my folks. Oh, I had tasted sweet, sweet independence, and returning to the Tiger life was less than ideal. Before I knew it, I was silently offering my tender flesh up for the P3. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. I had graduated from childhood and had become her ally. (And I'm guessing that she got just the teeny tiniest bit of schadenfreude out of it.)
It's evolved since then. Still, it's a way to keep each other in check, but we usually silently request it of the other versus it being a reactionary thing. Furthermore, the art of it has evolved as well. It used to be slightly more overt. She would nudge me, give me a quick but meaningful look, and then slowly twist her arm upward.
Since then, we have ascended to near Vulcan/Sister Mind-Meld prowess. Occasionally, without even really glancing at each other, without any prompting, we will reach under the table, and do this:
Some sisters have a secret handshake. We just have a pact.
Until the next.
No comments:
Post a Comment