Bigger things ahead

Last week my big, hairy, obnoxious brother had a very important birthday. I won't divulge which birthday it was, but let's just say he's older than me and his age can be counted in even decades.

Anyway, I got to thinking about just how old he is now and I started to reminisce about what it was like being his much younger sister when we were growing up.

I don't know why, but this story popped into my head and I think it sums up what I thought of him then and how I feel about him now.

Happy belated, brother dear!

***

I think it was Christmastime of 1986, and my big brother was getting ready for his first formal dance. He was a freshman in high school and I was still getting the hang of elementary school.

To say my brother was bigger than life to me is an understatement. He played basketball, he hung out with pretty girls and he got to drive the car sometimes. He was bigger, smarter and had way cooler responsibilities.

And in spite of the countless number of nouggies, wet willies and Indian burns I endured from him, I thought everything he did was awesome and grown-up. Even though I did my best to make sure he thought I hated his guts.

So when the big tuxedo-donning, corsage-chilling, aftershave-dousing, posing-for-photos-in-front-of-the-fireplace night of the Christmas Ball came around, I didn't want to miss a thing.

But I didn't want my brother to know that. He was annoying and stinky, so I pretended to play in my room while he got ready.

I listened for the shower to turn off so that I knew when he'd be getting into his tux, so I could be sure to get the first glimpse as he headed downstairs to have Dad help him with his bow tie.

I memorized new exotic words that I heard them saying like cummerbund and boutonniere.

I peeked inside the fridge to discover that tiny pastel roses with baby's breath must be the kinds of flowers girls liked the best because that's what my brother had selected for his date.

At last, my awesome but lame big brother was ready to join the ranks of teenaged royalty-for-a-night, who would in mere hours be swilling cokes and noshing on fettuccine alfredo in our small town's finest dining establishments.

But before he left, something magical happened. My mom made him stay for just one more picture.

Then, she nudged me and asked me to get into my Christmas outfit -- the '80s-style long pink sweatshirt with a taffeta skirt attached to the bottom; the one that just happened to match my brother's cummerbund and bow tie. I was going to be in the picture with him.

I played it cool with an "OK, I guess, " then darted upstairs, carefully slipped into the dress so as not to muss my hair and decided to put on the tights and the special accessories we'd gotten -- you know, just to make the outfit complete.

In a flash, I was on the stairs, like Cinderella entering the ball, if Cinderella had slid down the railing and landed with a kerplop on the ballroom floor.

I knew I had to be careful next to prince charming. He was really an ogre after all, and I thought he'd growl at me if I stood too close.

But he didn't.

He put his hand on my shoulder and he smiled. And for the length of time it took for mom to warm up the flash, focus the lens and snap the photo, I got to be inside his moment. I got to have a little taste of what it would feel like to stand next to a boy in a tux on a monumental night.

I had something new to dream about for the next six years, until it would be my turn to get dressed up for the ball.

Being a little sister isn't glamorous, what with the spit-dangling and the relentless tickle-maulings, but it's kind of nice having an older sibling to tick off life's milestones several paces ahead of me.

My brother may have gotten to be the first at everything, but Mom and Dad seemed a whole lot more relaxed when my turn came around.

Thanks, big brother. You're the best!

(By the way, you look like a monkey and you smell like one, too.)