I have four older sisters and that is more sorority than I can shake a stick at. Gorgeous is on the road to glitterdom via Gold Dust Boulevard and you dare not wake up Grumpy before the crack of dusk. Ms. Right is always right even when we all know that she is oh-so-wrong.  This makes me wonder if she really belongs with the first born, Ms. Humility whose halo does not need much polishing on any given day.

They claim my mouth has a motor compartment. For all the relentless brushing, gargling, flossing and a hyper-active gag reflex, this motor has yet to become dislodged. They consistently  assure me that this piece of equipment is in good enough shape to talk the paint off a wall. I have just found my next science project.

Tricky thing with sisters is that all these flavors and dispositions are fickle. Grumpy sometimes morphs into Gorgeous and Humility may become testy, but the single constant is that Ms. Right is never wrong.  I need a GPS of sorts to navigate the personal land mines within these four belles, but such a device  is yet to be invented. I don’t know to hang a left at bored or make a catty corner at indifferent. So we quibble. We split hairs. We squabble.

My deepest sorrow is that we are too old to settle arguments with fist fights. Sometimes a sharp elbow to the ribs says ‘you hurt me yesterday’ better and louder than hours of glum silence. A sharp pinch (especially when you are sleeping) lets you know not to ‘borrow’ my new shoes before I have had time to break them in. An angry yelp is always more satisfying than a thousand insincere apologies.

For all the bickering and claw-drawing moments, there have been moments of conciliatory tenderness. Moments that require us to put our military grade combat on hold if only for some days, but always within easy reach.

A badly shaken voice calling to say the doctor called with bad news. A choking whimper lamenting a failed relationship and love dying an unnatural death. An escaped sob mourning unrealized dreams. A voice eerily similar to my own asking for a tide-over until pay day. Yet another voice wanting to talk about another voice.

I was late making my entrance into this family. So late that most of the culturally ordained names had found these four other bodies to own, brand, differentiate and stick to.  My arrival created a minor panic as my parents scrambled to find a fitting name. In their desparation, they enlisted the help of an older relation who must have been quite the tree hugger. This explains why my name means ‘giraffe’ although I was denied an elegant neck and the accompanying grace. I am  as graceful as a drunken one-legged dancer with inner ear troubles.

These four beautiful ones remind me of my accidental beginnings. They tell me I should have been a boy. I retort our parents stopped making kids at the peak of perfection. Once again the claws come out. I threaten to sell their fair hides on a bidding website.  I promise myself I will buy a pretty pair of shoes from the pretty penny these lookers  will fetch.

I can’t because I’m sacred.

I’m scared I won’t have anyone to call.

I’m scared they won’t have anyone to call.

I’m scared a stranger will steal the shoes before I can break them in.

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