Now, as we Virgos are setting our sights on our respective seventeenth and thirty-first birthdays, I look at said sister and I realize that the universe had a bigger plan for her existence: To be my mirror. Well, not physically my mirror, as my sister is the tall, tan and athletic Quinn to my short, pale and awkward Daria Morgendorffer. But personality-wise, she is from hell -- the same obnoxious, loud, unwarranted advice-extolling and exaggerated storytelling hell that I exist in -- and I am sure much of the blame can be put on me.
For the four years I have wallowed in the personal prison that is my room in my mother's basement, I have watched her grow into an awesome, bratty teenager. (I think) I have taught her some good stuff, like the basics of feminism, being a supportive ally to the gays and how to not suck at liking music. But along with this education has come an unwanted side effect: The creation of an even more intense version of myself. She is her own person, yes, but I cannot help but recognize the overzealous tones in her voice when she's trying to out-talk (an awful character flaw of mine) our other siblings at the dinner table.
This past weekend, while we were sitting in the grass at a BBQ, I was complaining to my friend Erica about the fact that I couldn't tell if this dude I was hanging out with lately was giving me the friend-vibe or the "I wanna date you" vibe. To my surprise, littlest sis chimed in with "Well, why don't you just take him on a date to the movies, you idiot."
A date? To the movies? Who does that anymore? Doesn't everyone just meet at bars and get drunk (or in my case, watch my date get drunk) and then make shitty decisions and figure out how to deal with them later? Well, she explained, since I am old, then yes, that is what we do. But this is also why I am without boyfriend, she said blatantly.
She then told me to do what she does: Just ask this dude to go to the movies, sit in the way back behind everyone else, and make out. Or try to make out, at least. Oh, and don't forget to see an action flick, because clearly, there needs to be lots of noise in the theater to muffle the sounds of a make out.
With this simple plan of action, my sister had turned on a light bulb -- a light bulb that was hidden under my rockabilly and raver phases of life, buried beneath all of the time I had to outgrow my teenage dating skills. Suddenly, I remembered how I used to make out with my goth-skater boyfriend behind the mall. Or how I met that guy at a party once and he came over because he wanted to "borrow" my skinny jeans. I remembered that you didn't have to have a "conversation" about "the status of your situation" with a guy to know if he liked you. You just had to try to make out with him. My sister instantly became the more awesome version of not me, but herself. My sister had swag.
For the remainder of the summer, I have decided to take any and all advice my sister 16-year-old sister has for me. Because clearly, I'm getting no action by sitting across the table from some dude at a coffee shop, staring at his pants while we touch fingers and not talk about our non-existent relationship.
