Rachel Lapidow

BEFORE Sisterly love. Since time immemorial, it has been the ultimate usurper of selfinterest and ego. That bothersome, burdensome, stubbornly unyielding familial glue that binds us to our female siblings with the tenacity of gold bond Super Glue, but with ten times the messy residue. A bond that undermines our planned intentions to ignore and deliver a chilling (and in some instances, near lethal) dose of the ‘silent’ treatment. Where most friendships would perish or at the very least suffer a semi-irredeemable blow, the sisterly connection prevails with the sheer doggedness of… . . . well, a dogbitch. Is that one too many analogies? Well, here’s a straight-laced summation to hopefully reign rein in the underlying meaning: sisters are a pain in our ass, but we love them still. And darn it, do they ever have a piss-offmaddening ability capacity to salvage that which, quite honestly, you’d sometimes rather do away with. True, damage can be done and periods of silence imparted. Personally, I’ve gone months, and even the better part of a year,sometimes even months, without speaking to my sisters, while living under the same roof— - a ‘shunning’ initiated by an event, which at the time I deemed unforgivable. No doubt Undoubtedly, a “borrowed borrowed-without without-permission” type scenariooffense;, which, according to the laws oflaw EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE, is considered theft unless committed by a sister, at which point it’s rendered a negligible accusation under the sisterly clause. And so, my sisters were “blacklisted,”, after stealing some favored possession, like a beloved pair of embroidered, flare-leg Brody jeans (a ‘rage rage-at at-the the-time’ item) or my immaculately kept copy of the Miseducation of Lauryn Hill CD. Disclaimer: It may have actually been my copy of It’s My Life by Bon Jovi, but for the purposes of seeming credible, let’s claim it was the arguably more ‘cool’ and ‘legit’ lyricism of the divine Miss Hill. Finally, after months of tension and awkward exchanges during the inevitable, obligatory family gathering (i.e., Christmas), we called a ‘truce’ after my older or younger sister complimented my hair. A neutral enough article (in that it was something they could not “borrow”) and thus deemed sufficient grounds for reconciliation. AFTER Sisterly love. Since time immemorial, it has been the ultimate usurper of selfinterest and ego. That bothersome, burdensome, stubbornly unyielding familial glue that binds us to our female siblings with the tenacity of Super Glue, but with ten times the messy residue. A bond that undermines our planned intentions to ignore and deliver a chilling (and in some instances, near lethal) dose of the silent treatment. Where most friendships would perish or at the very least suffer a blow, the sisterly connection prevails with the sheer doggedness of . . . well, a bitch. Is that one too many analogies? Well, here’s a straight-laced summation to hopefully rein in the underlying meaning: sisters are a pain in our ass, but we love them still. And darn it, do they ever have a maddening ability to salvage that which, quite honestly, you’d sometimes rather do away with. True, damage can be done and periods of silence imparted. I’ve gone weeks, sometimes even months, without speaking to my sisters, while living under the same roof—a shunning initiated by an event, which at the time I deemed unforgivable. Undoubtedly, a borrowed-without-permission offense; which, according to the law EVERYWHERE, is considered theft unless committed by a sister, at which point it’s rendered negligible under the sisterly clause. And so, my sisters were “blacklisted,” after stealing some favorite possession, like a beloved pair of embroidered, flare-leg Brody jeans (a rage-at-the-time item) or my immaculately kept copy of the Miseducation of Lauryn Hill CD. Disclaimer: It may have actually been my copy of It’s My Life by Bon Jovi, but for the purposes of seeming credible, let’s claim it was the arguably more cool and legit lyricism of the divine Ms. Hill. Finally, after months of tension and awkward exchanges during the inevitable, obligatory family gathering (i.e., Christmas), we called a truce after my older or younger sister complimented my hair. A neutral enough article (in that it was something they could not borrow) and thus deemed sufficient grounds for reconciliation.