Could you spare a tissue? I need to dab my eyes. You see, my almost-sister Chelsea is getting married this weekend.

You may know her as Chelsea Clinton. But she's practically the twin sister I never had.

If you squint your eyes a bit closer, your keen eyes may detect a few very negligible differences between Chels and I.

It's true, my foreign-born father was never (and thankfully won't be) the country's top dog. My mum does not currently serve as Secretary of State. I've never even stepped foot on Stanford's campus, let alone had the option of matriculating there. And I only know Oxford by way of its utilitarian reference material.

But the chasm between First Child Chelsea and me isn't as gaping as it may appear.

My paternal figure was also a sloppy philanderer, and my mother has always rocked her respective house. I've spent meaningful moments in Palo Alto, and I, too, have an unused degree in international relations that lives in a very large frame in a trunk at my parents' home, some hundreds of miles away.

We were both child prodigies (Chelsea skipped third-grade; my dad merely told everyone I did as a result of starting school early), and boy, were we both ugly ducklings in our youth.

Above and beyond those superficialities, however, is the glaring fact that Chelsea and I grew up together.

When Big Bill took up residence in the White House in January 1993, he shone a spotlight on a daughter a few months my junior. This only child went from girl to woman right along with me during his eight years in office.

The nosy public eye remained on Chelsea with the limelight that followed the Clintons, even after the White House glory days. And so did my curious private eye.

While Chelsea deftly dealt with her gangliness, I dodged juvenile wisecracks about my demeaning Coke-bottle glasses. Chelsea and I both struggled in the wake of Cindy Crawford, tugging at, teasing, and finally surrendering to our curly locks during our teen years. Her snaggleteeth were forced in line; mine folded into the excuse of my eternally youthful personality.

We kept our noses clean, we kept our heads down, and we both went off to college with good grades, heads held high, and an iridescent, oyster of a world ahead of us.

Maybe it was graduate school far from home, or maybe it was about that time. But somewhere along the line, Chelsea and I became bona fide ladies.

My almost-sister Chelsea did — and does — the refined thing so much better than I ever could. The classic makeup, the strawberry blonde waves, the timeless elegance.

What began as an awkward adolescent emerged as a new breed of American royalty before everyone's very eyes. I didn't quite pull that one off.

To some of us, it wasn't so much a stunning transformation as an inevitable progression. But perhaps only an almost-sister sees it that way.

I've vicariously lived a more charmed version of life through Chelsea since we were 12. And this weekend, at 30, I'll sit back in anticipation while my privileged alter ego ties the knot with her longtime sweetheart in rural New York.

To my chagrin, Chelsea didn't extend a invitation to me, her estranged sister. Perhaps because I'm a member of the ill-favored press. No bother, sis. I'm in good company, at any rate.

While I won't be part of the prying paparazzi aiming to spoil your special day, Chelsea, I'll be there in spirit. Just like the last 18 years, I'll watch and wait quietly from afar.

I'll still need that box of Kleenex, though. I haven't missed a moment in your life since we were fledglings. There's no way I'm going to miss the moment you take flight from the Clinton nest.