“You could be twins” is something my little brother and I used to hear a lot back in the days when we frequented the same circles.
I never really saw it, denture apart from the genetic similaries of form and features which can be found in every fraternal relationship. When it came to our (quite good) looks, malady Greg favored the old man while I took more after our mother.
Our differences in personality are even more profound. We both share that trademark Weissian peevishness, natural intelligence, and penchant for grim humor, but he is as outgoing and adventurous as I am withdrawn and risk-adverse. He appreciates the finer things in life while I’m willing to settle for the familar plebian standards of my formative years. He’s done well for himself in a managerial R&D science-y career, while I coast by as a civil servant who lives for his hobbies and diversions.
He’s not the kid I used to know, but I’m not sure how well I really knew him growing up. Familiarity breeds myopia, especially in an eldest son/little brother relationship where my influence and expectations cast a huge shadow.
Though all the disagreements and fights between us, my parents always emphasized that Greg and I should be the best of friends. It’s kind of strange to think back on, considering how little my family stressed the bonds of kinship, yet the two of us have remained close while I’ve witnessed so many “blood comes first” sibling relationships turn acrimonious over the years.
So happy birthday, little brother. I really didn’t contemplate strangling you during the ride back from Toronto. Much.
Recommended listening: It was either this or Falco.