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Here is one of my stories about growing up in a house full of teenage girls.
My oldest sister, Mary Jo, and I were getting ready for school one morning, she seventeen and me fourteen, just shy of fifteen. A horrible age at best, from all perspectives, my own included. I was old enough to know it all, and too young to do anything about it.
As most younger sisters do, I would regularly steal clothing from my siblings. This arose from two unfortunate events – I had no money to buy my own clothing, and my mother, in all her infinite wisdom, thought that at the age of 14 I should have a job and go to high school at the same time. The fact that I was not of age to legally hold a job had no impact on this ironclad belief of hers. As a matter of fact, sixteen was the magic age in which all of us were to be paying rent or else (we all moved out by the time we were seventeen).
Back to the clothes. I stole a pair of clean underwear from Mary Jo. You may be thinking “but how would she find out, it’s just a pair of underwear?” When it comes to clothing, teenage girls can account for a dirty sock’s whereabouts. As I tried to sneak out the door in my in ill-begotten undies, I heard her yell “where are my underwear and did you steal them?” I picked up the pace and muttered the deadly-to-a-teenager's-ears word “whore”. Whispered, even. So quietly, just to make myself feel better about stealing her clothing because, again, at fourteen I was too lazy to get a full time job. How she heard me is as mysterious as how she knew, in a drawer full of underwear, one lone pair was sneaking out the door with me.
She literally FLEW down the stairs, in nothing but a shirt and underwear (her own, of course – she had a job). By this time, I was opening the front door, my boyfriend waiting in his car to take me to school (which was two blocks away, but he was MY BOYFRIEND), thinking I was scot-free. I could sprint to the waiting car and escape the punishment of my dual deeds. As I stepped out of the house, Mary Jo caught me, and much to the delight of the waiting line of cars full of teenagers on their way to the high school, proceeded to beat the sh*t out of me on the front porch. She in her underwear, me in full high school regalia.
Needless to say, she felt terrible about it, exacerbated by the fact that I refused to speak to her for a month (regardless of how this story reads, we were and are still extremely close). By the second week she was begging me to speak to her, offering bribes of coveted clothing and rides in her car to destinations of my choosing. Although I knew in the deepest reservoir of my heart that it was actually my fault that this had happened, my smugness at her willingness to win back my friendship overcame any guilt that I should have been feeling. It was at that precise moment that I understood the power of withholding love from another person to support my absolutely unjustified victimization.
My sister and I still laugh about this story, as it has reached almost legendary status in our memories, but it taught me one valuable lesson. That weapon is to be used in only the most justified of circumstances, such as receiving from your husband the $600.00 vacuum you had to have - for your birthday.
Here is one of my stories about growing up in a house full of teenage girls.
My oldest sister, Mary Jo, and I were getting ready for school one morning, she seventeen and me fourteen, just shy of fifteen. A horrible age at best, from all perspectives, my own included. I was old enough to know it all, and too young to do anything about it.
As most younger sisters do, I would regularly steal clothing from my siblings. This arose from two unfortunate events – I had no money to buy my own clothing, and my mother, in all her infinite wisdom, thought that at the age of 14 I should have a job and go to high school at the same time. The fact that I was not of age to legally hold a job had no impact on this ironclad belief of hers. As a matter of fact, sixteen was the magic age in which all of us were to be paying rent or else (we all moved out by the time we were seventeen).
Back to the clothes. I stole a pair of clean underwear from Mary Jo. You may be thinking “but how would she find out, it’s just a pair of underwear?” When it comes to clothing, teenage girls can account for a dirty sock’s whereabouts. As I tried to sneak out the door in my in ill-begotten undies, I heard her yell “where are my underwear and did you steal them?” I picked up the pace and muttered the deadly-to-a-teenager's-ears word “whore”. Whispered, even. So quietly, just to make myself feel better about stealing her clothing because, again, at fourteen I was too lazy to get a full time job. How she heard me is as mysterious as how she knew, in a drawer full of underwear, one lone pair was sneaking out the door with me.
She literally FLEW down the stairs, in nothing but a shirt and underwear (her own, of course – she had a job). By this time, I was opening the front door, my boyfriend waiting in his car to take me to school (which was two blocks away, but he was MY BOYFRIEND), thinking I was scot-free. I could sprint to the waiting car and escape the punishment of my dual deeds. As I stepped out of the house, Mary Jo caught me, and much to the delight of the waiting line of cars full of teenagers on their way to the high school, proceeded to beat the sh*t out of me on the front porch. She in her underwear, me in full high school regalia.
Needless to say, she felt terrible about it, exacerbated by the fact that I refused to speak to her for a month (regardless of how this story reads, we were and are still extremely close). By the second week she was begging me to speak to her, offering bribes of coveted clothing and rides in her car to destinations of my choosing. Although I knew in the deepest reservoir of my heart that it was actually my fault that this had happened, my smugness at her willingness to win back my friendship overcame any guilt that I should have been feeling. It was at that precise moment that I understood the power of withholding love from another person to support my absolutely unjustified victimization.
My sister and I still laugh about this story, as it has reached almost legendary status in our memories, but it taught me one valuable lesson. That weapon is to be used in only the most justified of circumstances, such as receiving from your husband the $600.00 vacuum you had to have - for your birthday.