I’m 19, 5’3”, and look like I’m 15.
My sister is 12, 5’2”, and looks like she’s 15.
Sometime during my senior year, while I was preoccupied with college applications, prom arrangements and graduation parties, my sister went from 11 going on 12 to 12 going on 17. She started wearing make up (and plenty of it), shopping at “the cool stores,” and shot up about a foot. She bought a straightener, started watching “The Hills,” and became addicted to AIM and Myspace.
And me? I graduated, got ready for college and worked at a day camp.
Then my family comes with me to move me into my dorm in August. I walk up to the sign in table, give my name and room assignment, and get my papers. My sister’s standing next to me all this time, and as we turn to leave the guy says to her, “Wait, don’t you need to sign-in, too?”
She thought this was hilarious, I found it AWKWARD.
Now I’m halfway through my freshman year, and my now-almost-13-year-old sister IMs me tonight and asks if I heard about her “issue.” I’m stressed out with hours of reading, 20 pounds of laundry, and the fact that it’s V-day and I’m fighting with my boyfriend. “No Emma, please tell me.”
“I’m bulimic.”
My whole world stops. Well, that’s an exaggeration. I had my suspicions. Her constant complaints about being fat, an accusation from some friends who stayed over a few months back. But this hits me a little harder.
She can dress like she’s 25, wear more make up than Lindsey Lohan, and grow to be 5 inches taller than me (that one will probably happen actually), but she’d still be my little sister.
But bulimia is like a title. A label. And not one you usually associate with someone “little.”
I prefer “awkward.”
Becca Bleznak
Philadelphia, PA
Rebecca.Bleznak@temple.edu
