Every summer, my family, including my aunt, uncle and two cousins go on vacation for a week in August. While there are usually eight travelers in all, my mom and my aunt, affectionately called “the Pearson twins,” in honor of their maiden name, run the trip with an iron fist.
Both my mom and aunt have a strange tendency to continuously, persistently and aggressively seek out the least desirable aspect of any situation and claim it for themselves. They both love being the martyr. While the rest of us enjoy vacation, the Pearson twins work behind the scenes to give someone else the more advantageous view, the better seat in the car, the bigger piece of cake, or the first spot in line. Neither sister will express an opinion about what they’d like, insisting that “either is fine,” because it “doesn’t really matter” to them.
Although the Pearson twins claim indifference to the minor details, there is no hedging on the overall tone of the trip. While summer vacation for many is a week at the beach with a book and a bottle of sunscreen, the Pearson twins insist on a combination between a five-ring circus and a triathlon.
Their first rule: no relaxing. If you want to relax, stay at home. Sleeping is kept to a maximum of eight hours, and our days are jam-packed with tours, boat rides, hikes, church visits and shopping for embroidered souvenir T-shirts, to be tucked into armpit level pants. Don’t even think of resting your eyes for a minute because every ounce of “quaintness” needs to be “soaked up.” Vacation for them is a to-do list, and most of the items must be checked off twice, once during regular daylight hours and a second time by night.
Despite the rigors of a Pearson-led trip, the twins have only led us astray on a couple of occasions, all of which they claim were “out of their control.” One whaleless whale watch a year ago is still bemoaned as their biggest bust; the to-do list from that year’s vacation still waiting for the “check!” next to “spot elusive and autonomous animal in its natural habitat” that will never come.
Once we’re in the van, aboard the boat, or on the tour, the Pearson twins begin to change their tune. Don’t even think about tampering with the schedule or their precious checklist, but if you want the front seat on the bus-it’s as good as yours. In efforts to be courteous and self-less, they continuously deny themselves their due in favor of bestowing it on others.
You might think that confronting such passiveness is a walk in the park. If they never state a preference, anyone who does have an opinion should automatically get his way. Not so. Dealing with someone whose behavior seems to say, “I am not important. In fact, my comfort and feelings are trivial ” is anything but easy.
At the end of our trip, we arrived in Tadoussac, a small town on the St. Lawrence River. Finding that our reserved rooms had been given away at the motel, we drove to a second place which boasted one star and a sign that read “Chalet Chez Caro” in duct tape on a dismantled fluorescent ceiling light. With no other options, the eight of us took over three rooms, each of which could comfortably sleep two people.
If I’ve done the math right, the quick and dirty solution to this stuffy problem is two rooms with three people and one with two. As the kids separated out accordingly, my mom came darting up the stairs of the small Chateau, officially starting “Martyr Off 2003.”
“Wait!” she yelled, waking all of the other guests. “Us four are going to sleep in that room over there,” she said pointing to the smallest of the three rooms, leaving the other two rooms for my two cousins, aunt and uncle. Although my aunt pointed out that we could have split up the beds in the more logical way, my mom wouldn’t budge. My older brother nestled into a kid’s bed with a Barbie ballerina comforter that he claims “smelled,” and my younger brother rested on two couch cushions on the floor, both head and feet protruding from the short pad.
My aunt stormed in, obviously sensing her imminent defeat in the Martyr Off. “All right you’ve won, but I’m not happy about it. This is ridiculous!”
In her defense, my aunt put up a good fight, even pointing out that there was a fourth room on the bottom floor that was offered to us. At this particular Martyr Off, however, she didn’t have enough to match her sister. But she did insist we “feel free” to use the “good” bathroom and shower whenever we wanted.
None of the rest of us get it. Maybe it stems from some mutation of the “Minnesota nice” phenomenon. More likely, it’s common courtesy and consideration, two qualities shared by many mothers and normal people in general. While such good manners can be tolerated in small doses, an overload could catch anyone off guard. Worse yet, get two sisters both harboring the strongest strain of “The Martyrdom” on the same vacation and you’ve got Martyr Off 2003.
Chris Jarosch is a junior in the College and managing editor of The Georgetown Voice. She is a Pearson twin in training.
