Thursday, October 2, 2008


I love my little brother.  He's a genuinely good, smart guy.  He's friendly and nice and would do a lot for people.  Right now he is overseas doing missionary work (which is why I can't link to his blog; the authorities over there aren't always kind).  He's involved in something he strongly believes will help people spiritually.

As such, it would be mighty awkward to go bragging to him about the hot date I had last night.  Sure, he'd try to be happy for me, but it's probably not as easy for him to wrap his head around the whole "live with, love, and raise child with one woman while dating other women" notion.

It's always been like that between us, really.  He was the good son and I was the rebellious son.  As such, I'm not sure how much he ever looked up to me after he was about eight or nine.  He's not the one who used to burn himself with cigarettes.  He never stole any of my girlfriends, and he was amazingly forgiving when I informed him one silly girl was more interested in me than in him.  He was never sent home from high school for wearing makeup and he never had an angry mob of students chase him at lunch. 

It's a little weird and slightly frustrating that I've never been able to share tales of my more interesting exploits with him.  Books and movies always stress the admiration younger siblings have for the older ones.  They paint a picture of boys growing into men and sharing the experiences at which life only hinted before.  I don't remember having much of that.  I know I'm happy with the things I've done and seen; I also know they're not always the sort of things my brother would enjoy.  We lead very different lives.

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