When I grow up.
I lovingly share custody of my parents with five siblings. Although some might throw our genetic six pack in a Brady Bunch parody, our female to male ratio keeps us from fitting in that grid. Nor did we have a maid…my mother fully utilized our weekly list of chores.
My four brothers are responsible for teaching me many valuable life lessons, including:
- Boys like sports. They like to watch sports, play sports, talk about sports, pretend they are on a first-name basis with their favorite professional athletes, play sports video games, engage in electronic fantasy scenarios, bet on sports, talk smack about rival sports teams, read the sports section, call into sports radio shows, wear sports jerseys, watch Sports Center every hour on the hour. No matter how much you try & will this quality out of them, through seances, prayer, exorcisms or silent treatments…you will be defeated. Accept the scoreboard.
- Boys have short attention spans. Say what you have to say as quick as possible if you want to get through to them. And whatever you do, do not begin any sentence with, “We have to talk.”
- Boys do gross things and have no shame for it. From hacking up loogies, to hiding their hand(s) inside their pants, to leaving skid marks in their tighty whities, to camping out on toilet seats for incredibly long increments of time. Put on a face mask, gloves, and deal.
- Boys like to feel needed. They like to offer solutions and have a short threshold for whining. Zip the lip and save it for your girlfriends.
- Boys like food. Get in my belly.
- Last but not least, boys don’t like to be changed. So don’t bother.
I am very grateful for being raised around the male species — the overexposure to testosterone and insight into their worlds saved me a lot of confusion, turmoil and unnecessary anxiety in adulthood. Together with my Dad leading the pack, I got the best of both worlds. Although they are each a guy’s guy in their own right, lucky for me, something they were not: Alpha Males. None of my boyfriends were ever beat up, threatened or ridiculed. In fact, I’d go as far to say they were anything but possessive or protective.
With all of that said, there is an extra special sibling who holds the title of my one and only sister. Although there is a generous age gap of a dozen years between us, and I can never buy those cookie cutter Hallmark cards that show two little girls holding hands with a written monologue about getting in trouble as children and fond memories of playing Barbie, our bond supersedes a close proximity of calendar birthdays.
This woman is my hero. She is self-made — smart, educated, savvy. As CFO & a key company stakeholder, her leadership and glass ceiling demolition inspires me. As a Mother, Daughter, Friend — she is incredibly selfless, generous and kind. As a Sister — she cheers me on through every single leg of my personal marathon.
Not to mention she is hott, and no that is not a typo. Her fashion sense makes me proud. She regularly works out and can keep up with me on the dance floor without breaking a sweat. The gal can even whip together a homemade meal to top it off.
I can’t classify her as a cougar because, well, she could saute them for breakfast. Although she exudes fierce qualities on paper, she is far too classy to roll in that category of cats. Frankly, there is no term concocted by society for her because she is one of a kind. When I grow up, I can only hope to be half the woman she is inside and out.
Last but not least, she is a rock star. Or I guess technically a groupie. In the last year, my sis has gone to countless concerts. I vicariously live through her autograph signings, bus tour photo ops, and VIP seating. Britney, Madonna, Sugarland, Jimmy Buffett, Keith Urban, Dierks Bentley, and on and on and on. Why stop there though, somehow she has finagled a ticket to attend tonight’s Country Music Awards. But hey, I guess when you’re a bad ass, you deserve a red carpet.
