I used to imagine what it would be like to have an older brother. I thought maybe he would pave the way for me, convincing teachers and students that I was cool by association. Clearly, in this fantasy, my brother was popular and didn’t mind hanging out with me.
He would introduce me to his cute friends, who were an acceptable two years older than me. He would teach me how to play sports, so I could be an interesting, too-cool-for-skirts tomboy. He would tell me which teachers to avoid and which classes to choose. He would be a buffer between my parents and I, providing comic relief in times of tension and snippets of wisdom in moments of sadness.
I imagined him kinda like Eric from Boy Meets World, but not quite as ridiculously void. He would be fun and strong and interesting. It was a funny fantasy to have, since I am so very much an oldest child— bossy and self-determined. Having an older brother replace me in that role seems ludicrous now. I can’t imagine having someone telling me what to do, rubbing my head, or teasing me about being a girl.
I suppose it’s best that I just have a younger sister.