There is a peculiar kind of loneliness that comes from being the only polite person at a family reunion. It is a stillness in the chaos, a quiet sip of sweet tea while the rest of your kinfolk are hollering about college football or arguing over who makes the best banana pudding. I had grown accustomed to this solitude until one Thanksgiving, when the screen door slammed and in walked the human equivalent of a Park Avenue pothole: my cousin, Sterling.
A local woman approached us. “Y’all are just the cutest couple!” she cooed. My Only Bitchy Cousin Is a Yankee-Type Guy- The...
If you have a cousin like Sterling—a Yankee-type, a critic, a man who sneers at your casserole—don’t fight it. Hand him a drink. Let him complain. Because beneath the sarcasm is someone who cares enough to show up, wise enough to see the cracks in the facade, and brave enough to point them out. There is a peculiar kind of loneliness that
He looked at me. For a moment, the bitchiness dropped. “If I’m not sharp,” he replied quietly, “they’ll try to hug me. And I can’t handle the hugging, Margaret. It’s too much. The hugging, the pinching of cheeks, the ‘Lord have mercy’—it’s a sensory assault.” A local woman approached us
Before I could correct her, Sterling turned, adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses, and said, “Ma’am, I wouldn’t date a woman who thinks ‘mayonnaise’ is a personality trait. We are cousins. And frankly, I’m the better-dressed one.”
“Bubba,” Sterling said last Easter, “are you planning to storm Omaha Beach after the ham? Because those pockets suggest you are.”
“You don’t have to be so sharp all the time,” I said, sitting down.