So Oakley is in town again. You know what that means: long walks. Oakley is not merely a fitness “nut,” she is the entire nut forest. “Oh, MOV, did I tell you about my latest fitness regime?” she innocently asks as she flexes her Linda-Hamilton-in-Terminator biceps, all sinewy and movie-starish, “It’s called the Hourly Zone, and it’s about isolating one muscle group every hour during the day and tensing it up and releasing.”
I feel tense just talking about it. “I don’t know how to do all that exercise-y West Coast kinda stuff, Oak,” I say with caution, “How ‘bout you and I maybe go for a walk instead?”
She takes another swig of her yogurt-banana-wheat-grass-vitamin-protein smoothie, and reluctantly agrees.
We have been walking a grand total of five minutes when our Hourly Zone is disturbed by Mother Nature unceremoniously ripping open the sky and pouring buckets of water on our heads for no good reason. Excuse me, did I say buckets? I meant swimming pools. When the word “monsoon” is bandied about by meteorologists on TV, this is what they are referring to. The sky was a revolting shade of bruise, and it was obvious the monsoon would not abate any time soon.
“Run for cover!” Oakley yells out, as if she is the Wicked Witch of the West who might melt at any second, “Go to Rite Aid!”
We bang on the automatic doors to open faster, and the video monitors catch two very drenched Hourly Zone participants (well, one participant and one wannabe impostor) on tape.
“Honestly, there are worse places to be stranded,” sighs my only sister, the same sister who did not receive the shopping gene as part of her initial DNA package. “Let’s pretend we’re 13 and wander the aisles and discuss all our prospective purchases in detail!”
This is so unlike her. Wander? Thirteen? Prospective purchases?
Since when does Oakley channel Barbie and the Disney Glam Clan?
But hey, if she can do it, so can I. “Let’s rate all the nail polish choices and decide which one is the sluttiest!”
“Let’s read our horoscope in every single magazine!”
“Let’s try on Halloween masks!” (It is, after all, August. We must be prepared.)
“Let’s read all the greeting cards and guess which ones the other one would pick!”
“Let’s see who can pick the most unnatural hair color kit!”
“Let’s model every single pair of sunglasses they sell!”
“I know, let’s go down every aisle and make fun of everything!” (that one was me)
We. Had. A. Blast.
Turns out, “Golden Glitterazzi” is the sluttiest nail polish (but perfectly acceptable for feet). September will be a month of frustrated romantic intentions for Aquarius (Oakley’s sign), while Virgo (moi) will be proving herself at work. The best Halloween mask for me is the skeleton, while my sister looks very attractive as Darth Vader. Oak thinks that my favorite greeting cards have puppies and kittens (hint: they don’t), while I somehow chose the exact cards she said she would’ve picked (maybe she was just done with my silly game and wanted me to shut up?). The worst hair color was jet black with an unnatural bluish tint, although we both agreed it would be suitable with either the skeleton mask or Darth Vader, especially when combined with the Jackie-O sunglasses.
And the “make fun of everything” part? That’s easy: it’s in my DNA.