You Got Served

Everyone knows that the firstborn sibling is the most loved.
Generally they are smarter, cooler, better looking, more well-rounded, healthier, savvier, better adjusted. The list goes on. In fact, I’m not sure why parents don’t just stop at one. After all, what more could you want? Why bother? The good traits have already all been distributed; it’s scientific fact that the second child only ends up being a watered-down version of the first. Too many dips into the gene pool and you’re just asking for trouble. Look it up.
My little sister is 23. Being five years older/superior than her, I try to pass down as much wisdom as I can. I do this with compassion and grace - never, ever, stooping to an I-told-you-so admonition. Except, of course, when she deserves it (sometimes the tortoise is already so far behind in the race, the hare can’t help but slow down every once in a while to point and laugh in good natured fun).
However, it is also well known that the older sibling must keep up appearances. So when a younger sibling issues a challenge, the elder must put the potential usurper in their place by rising to meet that challenge. In no way can the older brother decline a contest, a dare, a taunt or an ultimatum.
And so it was this past weekend.
Whether it was by arrogance, ignorance, or self-importance, she and her friends chanced a misplaced contrivance of great disturbance. With no deliberate avoidance or nonchalance, I gave them my assurance, much to their annoyance, that their prepense of my hesitance would lead to their comeuppance:
They dared me to dance.
They challenged me to go out with them on Saturday night. Throwing insults my way like: ‘past my prime’ and ‘long in the tooth’, they bet me I couldn’t shut down the clubs like they could. They made much of their previous conquests – staying out late and partying to the wee hours of early morning. They traded stories of their seemingly limitless stamina as they hopped from dance floor to dance floor.
Not to be outdone, I told them I would meet their challenge. And not only that, but I would last longer than they.
Saturday night came. I was wide-eyed and ready. My dancing shoes were strapped firmly to my happy feet. Loose and limber, I had eaten right all day. Plenty of water and carbs. I had napped.
It was Go Time.

9:00: We all met up at the bar that my sister tends. Ironic. She and all her friends are teetotalers. I handicap them by knocking one back. I don’t need to drink to have fun - just a jukejoint and comfortable pair of kicks. But it just wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t give them a head start.
10:30 pm: Sister gets off work. Her friends mention that they’re getting their second wind. Fools. I’m still on my first wind. Whatever that means.
11:00 pm: Arrive at martini and cigar bar. Their choice. They want to mellow out before hitting the club. Suckers. Smokiness and talkiness only leads to sleepiness. I’ve got them right where I want them.
12:00 am: Stand in line to get into dance club.
12:45 am: Finally get into dance club.
12:50 am: Fight the crowd to get to bathroom. Whew – made it.
1:00 am: Approach dance floor.
1:05 am: Now I’m in my element. The only white boy in a crowd of hip-hoppers. The muscle memory returns. Can’t fight the feeling. My feet have a mind of their own. But Sister & Co. are being wallflowers.
1:20 am: Humpty Dance. Atomic Dog. C&C Music Factory. It’s as if the DJ can read my mind. Arms akimbo, I have no control of my gyrating, rotund body. Sister is still in the corner, nodding her head and nursing an ice water with her girlfriends. Lame-O.
1:25 am: I’m bringing sexyback - if sexy is hand claps and finger snapping.
1:30 am: Just broke out the Robot, the Lawnmower and the John Travolta Jack Rabbit Slim’s dance from Pulp Fiction. I’m on fire.
1:32 am: Consider doing the Sprinkler, wisely abstain. Ditto for the Shopping Cart.
1:45 am: Sister & Co. are now sitting on the dance floor in the corner. I suggest they give up and leave.
1:46 am: They give up and leave.
2:00 am: I lead the way back to the parking garage. They groggily complain that their feet hurt. I remind them that you can’t break in your dancing shoes if you don’t ever dance.
2:15 am: Realize that the parking garage is closed and we’re stuck. Have to call security. Story for another day.
3:00 am: They drop me off at my car after I’ve been laughing all the way home.

The moral of the story is this: Kids, respect your elders. And the next time you’re looking to show me up – bring your A-Game. Because I just don’t have time to mess around with the B-Team.