On a lighter note, please welcome guest writer, the incorrigible Elaine! All opinions expressed herein are solely hers, and I”m hereby indemnified against any liabilities 🙂
For as long as I can remember, since I was old enough to be compared, (the instant I left that embarrassing A-cup stage), it’s been, ”Your Mommy is finer (sic) than you”. I smile and say thank you, at least it’s nice that one’s Mom isn’t an embarrassment.
I try my hardest to ignore the second meaning, which is that a woman who has birthed four children, and is more than twice my age, still looks better than me, who’s supposedly in her prime. I got used to that though, and saying my thank yous that is until my little sister started growing breasts.
I’d always known she was going to turn out better than me: It’s the curse of the first child to sit back and watch younger siblings get the best gene combinations. All the ”errors” in me are corrected in my little sister:
My crowded teeth give way to her even smile… Her lithe figure in marked contrast to mine, which a tactless (and obviously ex-) boyfriend described as ”sturdy”….Her hair; thick, long and straight, oh so polished in comparison to my wild shock, which has defied generations of relaxer-making scientists…
“Elaine, your sister is finer than you…”
I can deal with that though by
- moving out of the country,
- burning all the photos I have of her, and
- unfriending (defriending?) her on Facebook.
Yes! Freedom! No more comparisons! New life, new neighbours, new friends, who think I’m pretty enough…. In fact, I’m having them over today, for a little ‘house warming’ get-together.
”Elaine…”, I turn, smiling graciously, and see one of my new friends holding up a picture frame, ”…your boyfriend is finer than you…”