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Since high school, since we each received our first cell phones, my sister, Sara, and I have left rediculous voicemails for each other.  From songs like “I Like Big Butts” to choice clips by Britney Spears that sound hilarious when taken out of context (or in context, for that matter), Sara and I have hazed each other’s airwaves with stupidity as a major mode of bonding for years. 

 Recently, however, the voicemails phased out. Life got a little serious.  I was married and my husband did not get along with my family. Sara gave birth to my niece and nephew, worked, and attended college full time.  The giggly closeness of childhood waned under the pressures of grown-up-ness.

So you can imagine my excitement when a Led Zeppellin lyric blasted in my ear at 8am today. 

Tomorrow her five best friends and I are whisking her away to Atlantic City for the weekend to celebrate her upcoming marriage to a wonderful guy. Our room at Caesar’s Palace is booked. There are penis decals for the car.  All six bridesmaids have scrimped and saved for a stripper, and as of my trip to Babeland Sex Shop this afternoon, there is a candy bikini for her to wear for . . . whatever.

She’s excited.

Sara is a mother, student, and full-time medical assistant. She is also a funny, sexy, whole person at the tender age of 22. I am so proud of her. 

With the above pressures compounded by our father’s recent psychiatric hospitalization and my marital separation, it will be good for us to get away.  As sisters. As women taking a break and finding our mischief again. In Sara’s words on Tuesday, as we vented our frustration recent breakdowns, her babies chatting away in the background, “You and I have to have a blast this weekend. We just have to.”

I hear the freedom in her voice.  That’s my sister. That’s my best friend.

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