I had a big brother growing up.
Wait, wait, that came out all wrong. I still have a big brother now, but it’s not really the same once you get to your 20s, having a big brother. Okay, well, it is in the sense that he’s got a great job, cool degrees, way too much talent, and he’s married and like, totally has his shit together, while I still feel like I’m 13 in a lot of ways, but when you’re 5 and your brother’s 8? Get out of town. So cool, right?
And his friends! He and his friends were part of this untouchable group known as the “big boys.” They’re so grown up, hip, funny – basically they’re just out of this world. They know all the words to the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air opening credits (and the dance!), they wear fashionable matching sweatsuits, they listen to the Beastie Boys. Insane. Too much. Can’t handle it.*
And you’re desperate for them to like you.
At least I was.
So my brother would have his friends over, and I would spend the ENTIRE time trying to impress them. Luckily, I have the best brother in the world, so he never got too mad at me, but looking back, I’m sure it was mega-embarrassing for him to have his little sister chasing after him and his bros (that’s how guys talk, right?) and doing desperate things like telling lame knock knock jokes and – GASP – drawing ugly kid drawings with smelly felts for his friends to take home with them.
I think some of his friends were even nice enough to smile awkwardly and tell me how awesome my drawings were. Some of them might have even been nice enough to TAKE THEM HOME! And then my 5-year-old giganta-crush would like, explode to epic proportions because OMG, right? MAYBE HE THINKS I’M COOL.
I was trying way too hard.
Be cool, Andrea. Be cool.
*These are still the traits I look for in men today.