Page 3 of Resistance Training
“Hey, Vivi!” Seriously, I have never seen her smile like this before and I have never heard her greet me so enthusiastically. It’s unnerving. She rolls her eyes. “Calm down—nobody died. What are you up to?”
Sus.Highly suspicious, I tell you. But I can’t let on that I don’t trust this casually upbeat older sister act. “Oh, you know. Sunday-night stuff. I was watching a documentary. And I’m about to start doing meal prep for the week.”
“Oh yeah?” She smirks. “By ‘meal prep’ do you mean you’re eating a pie that you were planning to eat tomorrow? And isthe documentary about women who sing to their cats,starring you?”
“Oh my God—where did you hide the camera?!”
“Hah! I knew it. It’s a rainy Sunday night. What else would you be doing?”
“You’re an actual witch. I respect it.” I set my phone up on top of the book I’ve placed on the arm of my chair and settle back into the extremely comfortable cushions. “But I can’t decide if it’s creepy or sweet of you to check what the weather’s like in other cities—who does that?!”
“Extraordinarily considerate people who have a compulsive need to know everything,” she states matter-of-factly.
“Now I can’t tell if that’s a humble brag or if you’re the most self-aware person I know.”
“It can be both. What kind of pie?”
“Banana cream with salted caramel.”
“Wow. What’s the occasion?”
“It sounded good and I wanted to eat it.”
Aubrey blinks once, but she’s still smiling. The judgment was there in the blink, I saw it.
“It’s Self-Carb Sunday,” I add.
“That does sound good,” she says, in a tone that is a subtle and elegant little soul-crushing reminder that I’m not adulting properly.
I moved to Portland a couple of years ago, and even though Aubrey still lives in Seattle where we grew up, her judgey big-sister voice accompanies me wherever I go. Like a hypercritical tube of lip balm or a Stanley travel mug that’s supportive but also knows how to do everything better than everyone else. This is how it’s been all my life. She’s three years older than I am, but I have no memory of my sister ever actually being a child. Or of me not feeling childish whenever I’m around her, even in my mid-twenties.
I sigh dramatically.
Here we go.
“Don’t you care about the neighbors hearing you sing?” she asks with genuine concern.
“I only sing really loudly when it’s raining super hard. Plus Mrs. Friar is practically deaf.”
“Don’t cats have super-sensitive ears, though?”
“Excuseme. I have the voice of an angel. Hairy is very supportive of my hobbies as long as I remember to feed him and clean his litter box and do whatever else he wants me to do for him.”
She giggles, which is weird, because Aubrey never giggles. And she never passes up an opportunity to make fun of my exceptionally wonderful singing voice. She is clearly attempting to make me drop my guard. “I thought you just said Hairy’s supportive of yourbubbies. You know, like, boobies.”
“And then you remembered I’m not an adolescent boy from the Elizabethan Era? Are you a little bit drunk right now?”
“No, I’m just really happy that you seem happy.”
“I am. I’m so much stronger than yesterday. Now it’s nothing butmyway.”
“Are you quoting a Britney song?”
“Am I? I don’t know. You don’t have to worry about me—I’m great.”
“I know. I’m glad.”
“Yeah, but you said I seem happy with that condescending tone.”
