When I was six or seven, I wished two things: 1. That Shaun Cassidy would find me and marry me when I grew up, and 2. That I had a twin sister.

Now, the first wish was extraordinarily common in 1976. You couldn't swing a cat in any first- through twelfth-grade classroom without hitting four or five girls who were embellishing their brown-bag book covers with things like, "Courtney Cassidy" or "Mr. and Mrs. Shaun and Shannon Cassidy."

With that kind of competition (seriously, EVERY SINGLE Courtney - hundreds of thousands of them - wanted to marry Shaun Cassidy), it was clear my first wish would never come true.

But I held out hope for that second wish. You've seen it happen dozens of times in literature and in the movies.

An average suburban girl with an average suburban family in an average suburban home finds out that - remarkably - she has a twin sister from whom she was separated at birth.

Horrifying, right?

Not according to Tinseltown.

In the movies, this unlikely discovery invariably involves a sister who is not only an identical twin, but also a princess from a small European principality with a name like Belrosia, and she has a vaguely Continental accent, immaculate hair and a stable full of supertame flying ponies who love to have their glossy hair brushed until it shines like the Milky Way.

Naturally, the princess and the suburbanite trade identities. Naturally.

There are hijinks. Naturally.

Or they begin their sisterly relationship on a contentious note, only to find near the end of the movie that they love and need each other more than either could possibly imagined ... aaaaand, CUT. Is it any wonder at all that part of me spent every day of 1975-'77 looking out the corner of my eye for that girl who would be short, red-haired, freckled and built for whatever is the opposite of athletics? Only, you know, in a princess-y way. I never found her. We never pulled pranks on our unsuspecting teachers.

We never finished each other's sentences. We never argued at full volume about whether the other had intentionally placed a pinky toe several centimeters over the sacred dividing line of the car's back seat.

Instead of a sister, I had a brother. And although he wasn't even a twin brother, we still managed all right. We fought as children and now, as adults, we are good friends. Seriously, I would like spending time with him even if we didn't share the same crazy family stories.

A couple years ago, he got married, right here in Cooperstown in Cornwallville Church on the grounds of the Farmers' Museum.

He got a wife, and I got a sister. To be absolutely clear - we are not twins.

My sister-in-law is almost 10 years my junior, and she is not particularly short nor is she even remotely red-haired. And if we had been in middle school P.E. together, she would not have picked me first for her volleyball team.

My family stories are crazy and hilarious; hers are adorable and endearing.

But we've become sisters. And I have learned, at this late stage in the game, a little more about what it means to have a sister, as well as what it means to be a good sister.

I've learned that the ways we're different are mere trifles compared to the ways we're the same. Sure, I have friends who are as close as sisters. But there is a difference. If my best friend were to really, REALLY tick me off, I could always give her a great big piece of my mind without the awkwardness of seeing her every holiday for the rest of my life. Sisters have to be gentle with each other.

They don't technically have to be friends, I suppose.

I know lots of sisters who aren't particularly close.

But most of them wish it were different.

Who knows - maybe it can be.

If I can find my twin at this age, anything is possible.

Hear that, Courtney? Maybe Shaun will call.

Elizabeth Trever Buchinger is a freelance columnist who will make you pinky swear not to tell anyone her Shaun Cassidy secret. She can be reached at VillageWordsmith@hughes.net