Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)

Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.

This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.

Thursday, May 27, 2004

My sister turned 50 today.

She's another one who doesn't know about this little corner of my life (that I know of) so I suppose I can talk about her with some freedom.

We've been having a running battle for years now as we get older, revolving around the concept of a "go-round." Each go-round is ten years, and we have made a point of teasing one another when the next go-round is reached on our respective decade-birthdays. Since she's eight years older than me, there are always a couple of years in there where I am on the same go-round as her, which gives her infinite pleasure when she brings it up to me.

I merely stick out my tongue and remind her that she is still eight years older.

She called this morning and with some sense of resignation mentioned she was now on her sixth go-round. For some reason, I didn't really feel like teasing her. Our relationship has always been of a rather cantankerous nature--although not diametrically opposed, we do seem to have some notable differences in a remarkable number of areas. And a equally remarkable affinity for silliness and non sequiturs, books, food, and mischief. In any event, making that sixth go-round has taken some of the fun out of the fraternal mockery.

It's not that 50 is old, because it's not. And she's not an old person--mentally, socially, physically--anything-lly. It's just that there's some sense now (and I suppose there has been for a few years now) that we have well and truly grown up. The games we play with each other now aren't like when we were younger. The search for advantage has faded; they're no longer for keeps. The contests themself aren't as compelling as rehearsing the memories of contests past.

And it hurts a bit.

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