Sisters

Last night, Jesse and I drove to Oak Island to see my godsister and her family. Her youngest was turning nine; on the drive over, Jesse asked how old she was going to be and I answered, “Seven or eight. I don’t remember for sure.” Jesse said, “I bet she’s nine.” I said, “No way. There’s no way she’s nine. Eight at the very max. Maybe she’s turning six.” Ha. Apparently I have both a bad memory and an inability to guess the ages of children.

A bunch of us ate dinner at San Felipe, plates of fajitas and enchiladas and burritos, and far, far too many chips. I swore I wouldn’t have any cake, but then we all drove to the grandparents’ place where I ate both cake and ice cream. Apparently, I found room.

There was general goofiness, a pin-the-badges-on-Toy-Story-characters, present opening, and the unveiling of baby dolls that looked and felt shockingly realistic. I was made to hold one, which I immediately passed off to Jesse. Terrifying.

Today I spent the morning on the beach with my godsister, where we gabbed and realized, yet again, that we are the same person, only my hair is darker and she’s got more of an accent. I wish we lived in the same state. You must understand, as a kid I worshipped her. This was the early ’90s and she had long permed hair and was impossibly cool. Her hair is straight now, but she’s still cool, and I love that I can call her my sister.

Sisters