It was in grade five that I learned the lesson: don't borrow your older sister's clothes. My sister Anne wasn't much bigger than me even though she was fifteen. One morning when she wasn't in her room, I 'borrowed' her tight skirt to wear to school. It was a good fit except at the knees and beyond. Being shorter than her, I hiked it up a notch, grabbed her favourite purse - the one with wooden handles - and ran out the door. I don't remember the day or what the teacher thought of my get-up, but I do remember running home after school from the school bully. She was a tough girl, two years older than I, and she also owned two vicious German Shepherds who thankfully weren't at her side. After the usual ritual of sticking my tongue out at the school bully, saying "can't catch me ha ha" - I ran down the street to my house. Except the skirt was in the way and I fell to the sidewalk and over an unforgiving purse. The wooden handles broke and bore a gouging hole into my wrist. Sorry, ER, I didn't pay a visit to you because my sister and mom would have found out. I used a band-aid. So now I'm 63 and I can still see that scar on my wrist, but it's fading. Hopefully.
Don't borrow your older sister's clothes