A conversation that literally just happened between my middle sister and me:
Sister: So, while you're sitting at work twiddling your thumbs, I want you to write a blog about all the shit that happens to your body at 30.
Me: You mean like not being able to process alcohol (3 glasses of wine = college-grade hangover!), preferring sweatpants to club dresses because the belly pooch is deemphasized that way (NOT that you have one, of course), and falling asleep on the couch during the evening news to only wake up at 3 am covered in drool and wondering how you got there? That kind of thing?
Sister: ......
Me: Or is that just me, then?
Sister: Yeah, that's just you.
Me: Well. Shit.
Sister: No, I meant things like gray hair, hair in places it REALLY shouldn't be, age spots that even fucking Clinique can no longer keep at bay, the sad way the little Vietnamese woman (who could either be 25 or 82, it's hard to tell, but either way SHE doesn't have gray hair) looks at me when she does my nails because I've run so much in only 3 years that she has to BUILD me a toenail. Ick. And, by the by, if a guy says his wife/girlfriend/hooker doesn't have unfortunately-placed hair sprouting up, it's only because he's never seen her get rid of it. Or because she's not yet 30. Maybe.
Me: Ohhhhh, honey. I've had gray hair since high school, and weird unwanted hair since college. Welcome to the support group. We meet biweekly at the bar. But only for 1 glass of wine. And in sweatpants. Obviously. Also, I have to shave my feet lest someone gives me a piece of jewelry and asks me to go on a quest whilst avoiding a giant, disembodied, omniscient eye and weird scythe-wielding ogre-things.
Sister: Precisely. AND, none of this includes the fact that I bruised my shin back in May. MAY!!! And last week my trainer said, "Honey, does your boyfriend beat you?"
Me: Maybe you have hemophilia? Or, you know, a boyfriend who beats you? [In case my father reads this: we're kidding! We're TOTALLY kidding!! Put the shotgun down, Daddy.]
Sister: I have a very SWEET boyfriend.
Me: Yes, I know. And we're all mad jelly.
Sister: But maybe we haven't moved in together yet because he's mad that I have hemophilia and/or he can't beat me?
Me: There it is. SOLVED IT. We're like motherfucking Sherlock and Watson over here.
Sister: Can I be Jude Law?
Me: I'm sorry, but the proper verb the judges were looking for was 'do.' "Can I DO Jude Law?"
Sister: Dammit, I always misspell that one.
Me: We should travel with this act. We could KILL.
Sister: Maybe. But in the meantime, you should rename your blog "Chats with Big Sis."
Me: I'm already typing this. This is a thing, and it's happening.
Sister: You're welcome.
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