I Blame My Sisters

I am the baby of the family. I will not lie. This position has a lot perks. But there is a dark, seemy underbelly of this slot in the birth order that no one likes to talk about. This blog is all about breaking down barriers and telling the truth. So, Here it is: Because my siblings were older (and therefore ostensibly wiser?), I actually trusted them. Their word was gospel to me. So, say for instance, when they told me (again and again and again) that I had a very low pain tolerance, I believed them. They always said it in that kindly (aka condescending) tone, that only a big sister can really carry off.

So, earlier this month, when Steve and I had a little spill on a motorcycle, I assumed I was being whimpy when I was still limping two weeks later. And I still felt sheepish when, per my doctor's suggestion, I broke down and scheduled an MRI. But let me tell you: 24 hours later I had 46 years worth of validation. After all, MRI's do not lie: I have three broken bones in my foot.

Sure, I will be using crutches for the next four weeks, followed by two weeks in the boot. Absolutely, I won't be able to exercise for 6 weeks. Yes, getting ready in the morning really needs to start the night before because it takes so long, stinking long to do shower, hair makeup and dress with crutches. And certainly, I can't carry a glass of water or a hard cover book, and I truly detest crutches.

But behind all this there is a strange sick pride. Because, I hate to brag, but apparently, I do have a fairly decent pain tolerance.

And that summer back in '75 when my sister broke her toe? And, for the past 35 years I have lived in awe of her stoic determination? Well, sweetie: move aside, there is a new sheriff in town. It's your little sister... who perhaps isn't such a whimp after all.

And yes, for the fact that it took me two additional weeks to receive proper medical attention? I TOTALLY blame my sisters.