Stereotypes

There I stood, waiting outside the bathroom door, listening carefully for the blow dryer to turn off. My sister was taking forever styling her hair for school, all while the clock was ticking down to the time when the bus would arrive. I knocked and knocked for her to let me in, but she pretended not to hear me over the loud buzz of the hair dryer. Finally she emerged, followed by a haze of steam, hairspray, and perfume. As I turned to grab my towel, my younger sister whizzed past me and slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. I heard the shower turn on and once again, I was left waiting by the door. They say that family life is hardest for the middle child. Try being the only male sandwiched between two sisters who are

Unfortunately, this means that I, the minority, rarely get my way. When watching TV, they out vote me to change the channel from ESPN to shows like “America’s Next Top Model” and “So You Think You Can Dance.” As long as it is two against one, they can always justify their monopoly of the TV. Watching a family movie is just as unfair. When browsing at Blockbuster, my choices are always overruled by a chick-flick. I remember restlessly sitting through The Notebook with them. They sat next to me, bawling their eyes out, while I anxiously counted down the minutes to the

I look incredibly foolish, fumbling about with fifty bags and their purses in my hands. Strangers walk by with odd stares, and I reassure them, “These belong to my sisters. I’m only holding them.” It is beyond embarrassing, especially when my sister comes from the dressing room with a new outfit on, asking me how it looks on her. When I say, “It looks nice.” She protests, “You’re lying! It looks hideous, doesn’t it?” and storms back into the dressing room, slamming the door behind her. They both team up against me and seem to get pleasure watching me squirm. Because they know me so well, they know exactly the right tricks to “get my goat.” Both know very well that I find bare feet to be the most disgusting thing in the world, so whenever they get the chance, they will stick their repulsive, disease-covered, and sweaty feet right in my face.

The girls made up a language that only they knew. It was a simple language, but one I could not decipher. I fervently listened as they talked while pointing at me and laughing. I knew that they were making fun of me, and I was driven to insanity trying to decode what they were saying.

They say that when women live in close proximity together, their cycles become synchronized. A few days each month, I get the privilege