Nothing to See Here…

Remember that crazy Brady Bunch?  Boy, they were some fun family, huh?  I grew up with the Brady Bunch and probably know way too much detail about the episodes.  Like, remember when they were all fighting over the telephone and Mike - the pragmatic cool-cucumber he was - installed a PAY PHONE?  Or the broken vase (Mom always said don’t play ball in the house!) episode.  The teeter-totter record setting one was fun.  Of course my favorite was when little Cindy asked Santa to give her mommy her voice back so she could sing in church on Christmas morning!  Admit it - your heart just skipped a beat even reading the words, right?  That Cindy, she was a cute little cherub!

Good times, man, good times.

Today, I can’t stop thinking about the ”Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!” episode where Jan (who was WAY cuter and probably smarter and funnier too) was all jealous over how Marcia always seemed to get all the attention, all the glory.  Even though Marcia had a face sort of weasely looking (not that this fact is pertinent but us second sisters must stick together, I think.)

After all, Davy Jones didn’t kiss JAN’S cheek, did he?  NOOOO…. Marcia.  Always Marcia.  That fucking self-centered weasely-faced bitch.

Or am I projecting?  Well, let’s see… um, I’m a second sister.  My older sister is about 2 years older.  And all my growing up life, I felt like I was second fiddle.  Always.  Evidently, I have second sister syndrome!

To be honest, I haven’t thought about it in years.  YEARS.  I’m 41 and haven’t lived with my big sister in more than 2 decades.  Water under the bridge.

Or is it?

Last night, several members from my family met up with a few people from another family we were once rather close with.  This other couple (now divorced) and their kids were neighbors of ours.  Over the years of yore, my parents and these other parents would get together a few times a year to bar-be-que, drink beer, and play poker.  Us kids would run wild and have a blast. 

Oh, the stories we tell… the playing of doctor, the building of tents, the staying up all night, the debauchery, the mischief, the fun we had.

Of course, once these other parents divorced, it all kind of stopped.  I think I was about 12 maybe the last time we all got together. That’s nearly 30 years ago!!

Somehow, my little sis has been in touch with crazy-boy-child from this other family.  And plans were made and we all met up last night.  My parents came, as well as my husband and younger sister.  Crazy-boy-child-now-42-year-old-man and his dad were also there. His wife and kids were there for a bit too but they went home. We drank beer and ate wings and reminisced and  laughed until our sides hurt.  It was a blast.

About three and a half hours after the shindig got started, my older sister joined us. 

From the moment she sat at the table, crazy-boy-child-now-42-year-old-man moved chairs and sat by her and talked solo to her for pretty much the rest of the night. 

And I sat there - right before your very eyes - and turned into Jan Brady.  Long blond hair, wire glasses (poor Jan, she really hated those glasses, huh?) and all.  And I stomped on the floor and said “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia! Laura, Laura, Laura!”

OK, all that last part only took place in my head.

Honest to God, though, in a matter of seconds, I was transported back to my childhood self.  I was instantly stung by the situation, feeling very second class.  Wondering what in the world she had that I didn’t have.  Whatever it was, she’d had it all her life because this scenario was all too familiar to me.

It’s not about my sister, per se.  She didn’t ask for the attention and didn’t even want the attention.  Last night, she slipped to the bathroom with my other sister and told her “Switch chairs with me, it’s too intense for me over there.”  She didn’t solicit the attention.  I don’t think she did when we were children either.  And yet she always got it.  WHY??

The whole thing reeks of childhood insecurity, of sibling rivalry.  I don’t like it one bit. 

I know I’m smart and funny and while I’m no beauty queen, I’m certainly not Medusa (but neither am I Kathleen Turner, right Jenn? hahah)  Why do I need to know why?  WHY DOES IT MATTER TO ME?  Who CARES???

Will my self-image, my sense of self-worth, ever be whole?  Will I ever stop seeking approval from other people?  I feel like a freaking slot machine and I just need a constant stream of quarters fed into my gullet to keep me going.  You’re good enough.  You’re funny.  You’re pretty.  You’re nice.  You’re kind.  You’re a good mother.  You’re a good employee.  You’re worthy of trust, love, whatever.  What the fuck is wrong with me?  Why do I need so much external validation?  How can one little instance like what happened last night knock me on my ass so easily? 

Surely that’s not normal, is it? 

Where the hell is Jan Brady?  She’d know the answer.