Thursday, February 7, 2008

Vegas Vixen

I married into a family of statuesque height. Ben is 6’3. His sister, Laura, is 6’1. His older sister is 5’10. And, I am 5’6, a shrimp among long legged gazelles.

Laura met and stayed with us in Vegas. Ben worked while we gambled, shopped, watched shows, and walked the strip. As tourists, of course. We’re not that desperate for money.

Everywhere I went with Laura, people, mostly men, stopped to stare. After the fifth man we passed rubbed his neck from whiplash, I realized that it was not us they ogled, but Laura. She mesmerized them with sultry looks as I ran, panting, three steps behind her trying to keep up with her long strides and dodge my trampled self-esteem.

When Laura shook her head of red curls, men ushered us on the elevator first. When Laura sashayed through the casino, we got free drinks. When Laura struck a pose, taxis swerved through four lanes of traffic to reach us. When Laura batted her eyelashes, the answer was always “yes”. When I attempted her tricks, we got… nothing.


Laura was the supermodel with style. I disappeared behind her curls and tinkling laughter. I felt more like her publicist or personal assistant than her sister-in-law. Oh, well. I’m not Stretch Armstrong with America’s Next Top Model hidden potential. I just need to get used to it, or at least walk faster and wear higher heels.

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