My parents inform me that when I was younger, I used to adore my aunt. I know, I know… impossible, right? Wait just one moment… you mean to tell me that you’ve never heard the story about our dramatic battle? Allow me to tell you the moral of the story right now so that you might avoid my mistake: remember that you’re stuck with relatives for life. I should probably fill you in on some of the background details first. You probably would have never guessed that I was quite the tomboy back in the day. You did guess? What gives it away? Is it the plain nails, the unironed and hair full of flyaway, or maybe just how the natural tones of the face shine through instead of being painted bright clownish hues? Or were you drawn to the inexplicably unpierced ears, the neck unhampered by jewelry, and the phobia of shopping you always suspected but never whispered aloud?

My parents claim that I was not born this way. Was the change gradual, I wonder, or did I wake up one morning deciding there was more to life than make-up and boys? Whichever type of revelation it might have been, Auntie Laurel sure never experienced it. She still lived in a La La Land of pink frills and shopping sprees, and I as grew farther from my feminine roots, I wanted more and more to rebel from the pastimes she constantly wanted to force upon me, her fellow girlfriend.

“Want to go try on bathing suits?” she eagerly would ask me, or perhaps, “Want to get our nails done together?” As any angst-filled preteen would respond, I rolled my eyes and made sure the entire world knew that I couldn’t stand her. She was more of an annoyance; just another troublesome adult interfering with my life.

Everything changed when she dared me to do the unthinkable. Well, it wasn’t committing murder or anything, but if there was one thing you need to know, it’s the Ten Commandments of the Iverson Household. You do not lie, you do not cheat, you do not curse, and you treat your elders with respect. You stand up for yourself, but you put others first, and you never discriminate. I’m sure there are more out there, but you get the gist. Although murder wasn’t officially on the list, I could definitely recall one phrase that had been uttered repeatedly like some haunting mantra. You do not steal. First she wanted me to throw away the person I was becoming for her mold of the perfect young lady, and now this!

Perhaps I should explain to you the situation in more detail, lest you be thinking that she tried to persuade me into stealing a convertible car or a priceless gem that had been lost for centuries in a cursed tomb. Nothing nearly as exciting. I remember her voice, just as we were stretching from sitting in the plush seats of the movie theatre for two hours. With a devious smile on her apple red lips, she lowered her voice to a hushed whisper, “Hey, do you wanna sneak into another movie? I know lots of kids do it.”

I was appalled, I was horrified, and I sure couldn’t think of any other kids she could possibly know who were doing it. In fact, she was quite out of touch; she definitely wasn’t young, and she definitely wasn’t hip. Still, when I denied her suggestion in disgust, I realized how little she could even begin to comprehend me. The fake nails attacked to her natural ones glittered like fierce pink talons. With nails like that, how could she even manage to gob on the pounds of make-up covering up her aging face? Her gray roots slowly sprouted from the top of her scalp and threatened to take over the unnaturally colored brown hair that framed her face. And the amount of purple, frilly clothing she wore… don’t even get me started, I’m sure you can picture the fashion disaster. She represented everything I defied; she was the anti-me if there ever was one.

I heroically denied her thrill of sneaking into another screening of whatever film she had in mind. A bit disappointed, she shrugged her shoulders and picked up her purse that was shaped like a cat. I could not forget so easily. For you see, I saw life as most children do: a battle between good and evil. Being a person of such moral stature, I easily targeted my aunt as the source of all the things I despised. I was the hero, refusing to give into her contrived outings, treating each one as a sinful temptation. They were all traps she set up as she waited for the perfect moment to snatch me with her manicured claws and drag me into her lair of sequins, crafts, and hair curlers.

What I hadn’t realized was that it had been actually a one-sided battle; that is, until me turning full force against her turned her against me. I had always had the sinking feeling that Auntie Laurel knew the Movie Theatre Incident was the turning point in my rejection of everything she stood for. With ever visit I waited for her to challenge my sense of morality so I might gallantly defend it.

One day she decided to play a “game” with us, creatively titled Name The Moral. She sat me down along with my brother and explained that whoever guessed the correct moral would win a dollar. She cracked her knuckles and looked back and forth between us. I feigned a yawn of boredom, even though I was fiercely competitive with my non-threatening, bouncing brother. He was so fidgety that he could hardly sit still. This was my chance to prove what real morals were made of.

“One day, your Auntie Laurel and Uncle Alan had first class plane tickets,” the anecdote began, “but because we were wearing PJs, they wouldn’t let us sit in first class. What is the moral of this story?”

“I know!” I interjected before my brother could mention a single word. “You should always take into consideration what other people think and how they feel.”

“Wrong.” she commented dryly, turning to my brother, who was staring off into space and kicking his legs over the side of the couch.

After giving her a blank stare, he cautiously asked, “Don’t wear PJs on a plane?”

“Correct!” she cried with glee, pulling out a crisp new dollar bill and handing it to him, drawing out the motion that I might get a good look. What did I need with a dollar anyway? Settling down again, she began the next round. “Your grandfather was working a security position, before he went into the army, and he taught himself to type so that he could stay inside the warm building instead of patrolling in the cold when winter came around. What’s the moral of this story?”

“Self-improvement will always benefit in the long run!” I was so sure of my answer that I shot it out there the moment her concluding line surfaced.

“Sorry, that’s also wrong. Maybe Erik has a better idea?” she suggested, turning to face my little brother, who had a smug smile plastered across his face.

“Learn to type.” he stated, realizing the rules of the game before I could. I don’t need to tell you what happened next, do I? It still pains me, to think her morals were so twisted that she hardly had a sense of what defined them. Oh, and not to mention that my clueless brother became two dollars richer.

Regardless, I still saw her as ignorant, even when I was the one who was blind. I should have seen her second “moral” coming, but I was too busy wallowing in how she could not see what was so obvious to me. As she was all too fond of saying, “Fool me once, shame on you, but fool me twice, shame on me.” Shame on me? Surely not. Do you think that this was my fault? She was the one who had no moral sense, she was the one who wanted to steal, she was the one with the pink frills trying to recapture her dying youth by stealing mine!

As the dollar was forgotten, her subtle revenge continued. An extra Christmas gift for my brother here, a couple extra dollars for his Birthday there. One time she gave me $1.50 worth of used McDonald’s teenie beanie babies while Erik received over thirty dollars worth of brand-new Star Wars legos. She became the vulture circling above me, waiting until I would give in under the pressure that my neglecting her had caused. Someday, she figured, I would have to come over to the dark side of the girl-force. Or rather, the pink side.

After years of gridlock, I began to accept her, although I could never fully forgive her. I mean, would you? If she had swooped down and taken your morals, and torn them up, and thrown them into the wind, what would you have done? You might pick up the tattered pieces, trying to paste them together. You might hopelessly watch them drift away. Or, you might grab the fistful of remains and throw them back at that which had ripped them with flame-pink French tips. Whatever your choice in defending who you are, remember this: life is not a childish battle between good and evil. You might be independent and not care for frills, but two spiteful dollars can hit you hard. You might be ignorant, you might be blind, but at least you might learn that if you can’t join them, don’t try to beat them.

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