As Valentine’s Day rapidly approaches, I can’t stop my slightly bitter, loveless self from gagging every time I see a heart-shaped, raspberry-filled anything. I have to restrain myself from mowing down pedestrians who are innocently holding hands with their significant others. For weeks I’ve been trying to devise a plan where I can just sleep through the 14th, wake up the next day and move on until next year rolls around. Part of me embraces this escapist route, the rest isn’t so sure.

The part of me which is unsure about this anti-love campaign conveniently happens to be the part of me which could never stop loving. It’s the part I would never want to lose. It’s the part which cares unconditionally about the person with whom I’ve spent every Valentine’s Day for the past 20 years — my big sister.

OK, so by “big” sister I mean two minutes older identical twin, but two minutes can make a world of difference. Sissy has always been my role model. I may look down at her a tiny bit — I am two centimeters taller — but I always try to rise to her standards. I have a mental checklist of everything I need to aspire to in life: become faster, smarter, more independent, more responsible, more thoughtful. Be more like sissy. I think her checklist might be a little shorter: Check to make sure Mary Scott is still in one piece every other day.

I’ve used the younger sister crutch for as long as I can remember. I made sissy get her ears pierced first just so I could be certain my own ears wouldn’t fall off. I made sissy the driver while I assumed the role of dedicated co-pilot. While I’m thinking about it, I should probably add “be a better driver, for the sake of all mankind” to my checklist.

If there’s ever been a time when I’ve failed, I’ve looked to sissy to make up for it. My SAT scores were fine, but hers were better. She can mask my weaknesses with her strengths. I use her as the example to beat all examples. “Yeah, well my twin sister can do that.”

But I know it’s not fair. It’s not fair that I should put her on a pedestal when I know she has all the same worries, anxieties and questions as me. It’s not fair that sissy should have to make up for my mistakes. It’s not fair that she has to be the older, wiser, “good” twin while I get to assume my role as the younger, reckless, “bad” twin. Surely, two minutes shouldn’t make such a world of difference?

The other night my sister needed a responsible, gentle voice to ease her out of a worry which had gripped her and would not let her go. She needed me to be the big sister for once so that she could take a turn being comforted. I did the best I could, and she looked up a tiny bit at her younger sister. I think she was more grateful than I could have imagined.

I’ve always expected my sister to come running whenever I send up my own personal SOS. But all of that running — although she is speedier than me — has worn her down, and I think this has taken a toll on our relationship. She is always expecting the worst, and I am always demanding the best. Her feet are tired, my voice is hoarse and the world keeps spinning as we look at each other, confused and hurt.

I don’t know if it’s just the natural progression of my maturation, or if I had an epiphany which didn’t quite register within the last few months, but I have started to wean myself off of the younger sister potion. I’ve started to grow up. I’ve made myself hyper-aware of all the times I feel I need my sister, and I’ve tried to work through those times with just the help of one person — me. I’ve been trying to stand alone, next to my wonderfully patient sister, instead of standing on top of her. Because she occupies that role, which transcends any kind of best friend, sister, confidante, soulmate definition, and she deserves to have that space all to herself without me barging in with my next life crisis. I’ll occupy my own space, next to hers, with two minutes creating a respectable margin of distance, instead of a gaping unconquerable difference.

The part of me which loathes the concept of a day dedicated to love, lust and two-week-old romances is the same part of me which realizes I’m sappier than most. I dedicate this Valentine’s Day and all others hereafter to someone with whom I expect to spend the rest of my life. All you love-struck, blissful Valentine’s Day worshippers can thank my sister for holding me back from launching a tirade against love. Enjoy your day and your company, don’t expect too little or demand too much. I know I’ll be wide awake, moving through my day as I do all other days: texting sissy during every class, calling her during every break, and sharing mindless banter, jokes and our favorite professor quotes of the moment. When all the terrible boxed chocolates are gone and all the rose petals have dried up and drifted away, I’ll still have my big sister a room away, two centimeters below, two minutes apart.

Mary Scott’s column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at m.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.