Midmonth, a hottie’s frisbee lands on your towel while you’re hanging out at the beach, lake, or pool. The engaging Sun says join in - it’ll lead to a flirtfest.
As Feisty Pisces embarked on her month-long road trip across the U.S., she kept her Cosmo horoscope at the forefront of her mind. Since it was July, it wouldn’t be too difficult to find herself at a beach, lake and/or pool. She foresaw opportunities for romance at three key stops:
A) Near Lake Michigan in Chicago, Illinois
B) Beside Red Eagle Lake in Glacier National Park, Montana
C) By the Pacific in Venice Beach, California
The first stop was Chicago, where FP was spending the 4th of July with friends. Disaster, however, struck before FP even reached the city limits - she and her traveling companion had broken down on the highway in Indiana. They’d been towed 100 miles into Chicago, and on the 4th were still anxiously awaiting the verdict on repairs.
Now in the Windy City, FP and friends headed to Millenium Park in the early afternoon to claim a spot for the fireworks. They opened some wine, put on sunscreen and settled down to enjoy the weather. But just as she was getting comfortable, imagine FP’s surprise, when a runaway frisbee landed a mere foot from her head. It seemed too perfect!
Here is a short peek into her mind at that very moment: First stranded in Chicago, then a chance meeting and flirtfest at the park, with a whirlwind romance to follow. It would be hot, passionate and moving so fast, but alas! The car would be fixed in only a week’s time! The couple would part ways, always wondering, “What if…”
Shaking herself from the daydream, FP snapped into action. She sat up, ran one hand through her hair and squinted to find the hottie this frisbee belonged to. Alas. It was not a suntanned athlete smiling at her across the grass, but a happy couple, running over hand-in-hand to apologize.
Not to be disappointed, FP remembered that Cosmo had decreed the fated meeting would take place mid-month. The 4th was too early.
The next stop (mid-month!) was Glacier National Park’s backcountry. FP and 2 friends were backpacking for 3 days at Red Eagle Lake. This was Feisty Pisces’ first backpacking trip, and so she thought an amorous meeting likely among the campsites after a long day’s hike.
But hiking in back country, she found, wasn’t like family camp or cabin camping. There was no guarantee that she would meet any other people, let alone a hottie playing a game of frisbee.
Still, FP kept her eyes open. And during those three days, she met:
1. One couple, mid-sixties 2. One young moose, with fuzzy antlers 3. Trees 4. Dirt
Very pretty scenes, and a friendly couple, but the trees were strangely indifferent to any attempted flirtfests. Onward to California!
Despite her previous disappointments, FP had very high hopes for California. So many songs had suggested THIS was the place to find summer love. After all, “Californiaknows how to party,” and as Sheryl Crow says, “All I wanna do is have some fun, until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard.” And the Beach Boys had said, “I wish they all could be California girls.”
So she planned one last attempt at her Cosmo mission, this time at Venice Beach. It was a highlight of the road trip: the people-watching was excellent, there was a crew of roller-skate dancers, the water was a beautiful blue-green, and the weather was perfect. But despite the hustle and bustle, not once was FP approached by a hunky beachgoer. With or without a frisbee.
Her only explanation was her lack of “Daisy Dukes, bikini on top.” She is committed to these horoscopes, but apparently this time FP just wasn’t hot enough to melt anyone’s popsicle.
(Spicy Pisces is on vacation this month and will be posting from the road.)
Virgalicious’s July horoscope:
“This month’s eclipse encourages you to organize an after-work softball game with colleagues on the 11th. A spicy flirtation (perhaps involving you, if you’re single) ensues.”
The theory: an after-work softball game sounds very casual, charming, athletic, etc. You get to wear cropped pants and baseball Ts, and put your hair in a swingy ponytail. All your coworkers are young, tanned and fit. It’s hot, so you’re all just faintly glistening with perspiration. And just as you prepare to steal second base, you notice that quiet coworker looks a lot more attractive with a baseball glove on. Your team wins, you celebrate over a beer, and love blossoms.
The reality: How many people play softball often enough to have equipment on hand? And since Cosmo’s Cosmitas is a not-for-profit venture with a budget of approximately $0, purchasing a team’s worth of softball equipment was not so feasible.
But, thought Virgalicious, surely we can substitute a different sport: kickball. Her workplace had a kickball team this past spring, so there would definitely be interest (and even expertise). All you needed was a playground ball and a field. Perfect! Shiny, happy, athletic people!
She eagerly scheduled a Monday game and sent out a facebook invite. It will be a happy distraction from our workplace woes, she promised. We will all look and feel so fantastic!
“I only run when someone is chasing me.”
“I’d rather be home eating cookies and popsicles in the air conditioning.”
“It’s going to be 95 degrees on Monday.”
“No, seriously, it’s going to be 95 degrees.”
“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? IT’S GOING TO BE 95 DEGREES.”
(Maybe Virgalicious’s coworkers were not so shiny and athletic after all.)
Dismayed but not defeated, Virgalicious decided she needed to pursue a staff sport at which all her co-workers excelled: happy hour.
That’s kind of like the above fantasy scenario, right? It just skips straight to the celebratory beers.
Instead of glistening and running around in the late afternoon, a group of about seven of V’s coworkers met up for margaritas. But though margaritas are always a good idea, and V is definitely single, no potential mates materialized. The only “spicy flirtation” that ensued was with her gay male co-workers. V might have had more success with this mandate in the spring or fall, when temperatures would be more bearable. Or if she had a more athletic workplace.
I guess Cosmo’s astrologers just didn’t foresee the heatwave.
Close to the 24th, grab a single friend and hit a bar to watch the Wimbledon matches. Under captivating Mercury, the prepster hotties will swarm when you and she get into a playful disagreement about who the cutest players are.
This prediction seemed promising at first: hot men doing extremely athletic things. However, there were some difficulties.
Complication #1: Wimbledon takes place in England, so even with a time delay, matches start airing around noon. Which meant we would be daydrinking (yay!), but also meant the bar we chose looked like this:
(Noon at a popular Philadelphia bar. Yikes.)
Not to be discouraged, we took a seat at the bar and waited for the inevitable swarm of men in polo shirts. There was only one other customer, a waitress, and a (much older) bartender to amuse us, but we had faith. We gamely ordered cocktails and decided to wait it out.
Complication #2: When the bartender switched the TVs to Wimbledon (at our request), it was a women’s match.
So scratch those plans for that playful girl fight - unless we wanted to attract a very different kind of prepster hottie.
With one cocktail down, despite our pleasant noontime buzz, the crowd still seemed pretty…unpromising. We started drinking water and considered switching locales. Then, fate intervened.
ESPN2 switched from the women’s match to the men’s. The match was Tsonga v. Ferrer:
Jo-Wilfried Tsonga (France)
David Ferrer (Spain)
Blessed with such fine material, we ordered another round of cocktails. About two minutes in, the lunchtime “rush” of five or six men arrived. And who should sit next to us? Two prepster hotties, whose eyes were quickly glued to the match.
Well done, Cosmo.
We started arguing over who should win. Feisty Pisces was rooting for Tsonga, Virgalicious for Ferrer. Tsonga was buffer, FP argued; Ferrer was graceful, Virgalicious replied. Tsonga spoke French, FP exclaimed. Ferrer spoke Spanish, V rebutted.
FP spitefully noted that Tsonga was winning. V insisted Ferrer would recover. (He didn’t.)
As we argued, the neighboring prepster hotties turned to us. Preppy Hottie #1 asked, “So are you guys really into tennis?”
Complication #3: We are not really into tennis. (Actually, we do not even completely understand tennis, as we soon proved.)
Thinking quickly, Feisty Pisces asserted we wanted to learn how to play.
Preppy Hottie #2: Where can you play tennis around here?
FP: We were just going to practice in the yard.
PH #1: You can’t really play tennis in the yard. The ball won’t bounce.
V: Oh, but we could practice our…serve.
Though we kept up an occasional flirty conversation, Prepster Hotties paid their check and told us they’d see us later. But with no phone numbers exchanged, that didn’t seem likely.
We’d thought a string of pearls and J. Crew dresses would be enough to seal the deal. Next time, we would have to “prep” ourselves better.