I have two of them. The younger of my sisters, although she’s still quite a lot older than me, and a grandmother, lives quite a long way from my home, and I only get to see her three or four times a year, but I try to arrange for her to spend a few days with me when the husband’s out of town.
He’s in San Diego this week, for the Comic Con.
When the husband’s away...
I like and admire women, more so as I get older, but I’ve never been one of those that has collected women acquaintances or belonged to a group. I don’t make friends easily. I wonder if this is, at least in part, because I have close relationships with my siblings and therefore have less need of close relationships outside of the family. I don’t know.
I do know that, despite us being very different, despite us sharing few opinions, despite us clashing wildly from time to time, the sister and I get on like a house on fire. Despite being an essentially private person, I will talk to her about virtually anything and everything. We disagree without fear of falling out, and we laugh, and we laugh, and we laugh!
The one small downside to her visits is that for the time the sister is with me, nothing ever gets done. We eat out, because no one can be bothered to cook; I don’t put a wash load on or fill the dishwasher, which is fine, because, after all, no one cooks; there’s zero chance of me dragging out a hoover, and the beds go unmade.
But here’s the thing, the sister is the last person who’s ever going to stand in judgement of my status as a domestic goddess. She doesn’t care whether I can cook or clean, she doesn’t care whether there’s lipstick on my teeth or my shoes are scuffed, and she doesn’t care how much I weigh or what I earn. The sister cares that I am happy and healthy and that she can make me laugh, and, you know what? That’s what I care about, too.