The service was quick and Zach did a good job of not messing up. The party was a lot of fun, and I took immeasurable in watching Zach awkwardly dance with his "girlfriend," who, I'd like to point out, wore nothing more than a bikini top and Sophie shorts the entire evening. Zach really picks the classy ones.
So yes, I had fun, but...it's also weird. I remember becoming a Bar Mitzvah myself; it's really, especially in this Jew-centric town, a sign of being grown up. After my Bar Mitzvah, I really was treated more like a man. And not having to go to Hebrew school anymore when you've gone weekly since first grade is, well...Toto, we're not in elementary school anymore. In another few days Zach will become a teenager.
See, I will always see him as my baby brother, this small little thing who will never have to go into the real world. I know, boys are different than girls, and you don't necessarily have to be as protective of the former, but I'm still worried. It won't be long before Zach enters high school. He'll have lots of friends and play varsity sports and go to parties and shop at Abercrombie at Menlo Park Mall while scouting girls with his bros. I won't judge him for it; if anything, I'll be
jealous of him, since he'll have a wonderful high school experience whereas I like to think I barely survived mine.
It's just, well...an older sibling is supposed to provide guidance and advice and know just what to say. But you wouldn't ask Roseanne for dieting tips, would you? You wouldn't ask Robin Williams how to not be obnoxious. Just like a high-school athlete with girls fawning all over him wouldn't ask his gay New-Yorker brother about...anything, really, besides maybe academic stuff, but Zach isn't going to care that much about schoolwork. I don't want to not be in his life, but I can't help but feel as though I'll be, if not an embarrassment to him, then just some older figure. While his friends' older brothers play basketball and show them their dads' Playboy magazines at Labor Day barbecues, I'll be hanging with the moms, getting drunk off vodka cranberries and trying not to get my jeans dirty.
I don't know. I guess it's just weird, and a little scary, and very exciting. Whatever, I'm proud of him.
I really need to just get a fucking therapist already so I stop dumping all my shit onto the blog.