For the past 18 years, my life has been consumed by burps, boobs, and balls (footballs, mainly). I’ve endured the haunting smell of Axe body spray lingering in the bathroom I’m so lucky to share with my two “hygienic” brothers. I’ve tracked the transformation of my father’s biceps from an average bulk to a bulging Hulk. I’ve watched my brothers demolish extra-large pizzas, Chipotle burritos, pounds of year-old Halloween candy, short stacks of pancakes, and large movie theatre popcorns – butter included, on occasion – all while retaining their muscular chisel.
I’ve never had a sister with whom to share clothes, talk about boys, binge on Ben & Jerry’s while watching The Bachelor, try hot yoga, write flawless responses to texts, and of course, to snuggle and cry when Noah and Allie die together at the end of The Notebook (and if I just ruined The Notebook for you, that’s your own fault for not seeing the quintessential yet ridiculously cliché romance movie of the 21st century).
Growing up in a house of boys taught me the importance of being yourself and not changing who you are to fit a mold. I learned that putting on makeup doesn’t make me any prettier. I learned that wearing Louboutins while carrying a Louis Vuitton doesn’t make me any cooler. I learned that having 2,000 Instagram followers doesn’t make me more popular. I learned that what matters is what’s between my ears, not between my closet doors.
I crave sisterhood. I crave an escape from the sports talk and fart jokes. I crave a place where I can share endless adventures and create indelible memories with sisters that know the real me. As rush season quickly approaches, I grow more and more excited to finally (and hopefully) have sisters of my own. While anxiety has yet to set in, I’ve been feeling a tad queasy about a question that baffles me: how can I show who I am, what I stand for, what I value, and what I aspire to become in a 5-minute session of speed dating?
I want to see the world. I want to become the next Ellen DeGeneres (though Amy Schumer will suffice). I want to have a broadcasting job that I am passionate about. I want a husband with light eyes to block out any possibility of a dominant trait washing out my family’s light-eyed genes. I want a house with a view, a blue-eyed husky puppy, a six-pack of cold, hard abs, and most importantly, a sisterhood that sees who I am beneath everything else.
But, valuable relationships take years to cultivate, not 20 minutes in a mass of other girls dressed in newly-purchased outfits that nearly broke their parents’ bank accounts. I can’t control who my brothers are, but lucky for me, I have the privilege (hopefully) to choose my own sisters. My head is spinning thinking about the amount of time we will spend worrying about how we look and what we wear, essentially putting on a costume and performing an act to be nominated, and in the end, win the most prestigious award of all – lifelong sisterhood.
“Never judge a book by its cover.” It’s a saying we’ve been taught to apply to more than just our latest read. Let’s remember that it’s what’s between the pages and within the binding that matters, not how the illustrator designed your cover page to appear.
Is rush really just an auction for me to sell myself or is this finally my opportunity to show who I am beneath my oh-so-daunting exterior? My hopes are high and my price tag says “free.”