Seriously, when did it begin. I seemed to remember that maybe last fall when I was visiting my parents it was happening, though I can’t remember any specific articles of clothing it involved. In any case, it has happened three times this week and it is awesome and I hope it never stops happening.

My sisters came home from a day of whatever it is sixteen and nineteen-year-old girls do during the day (from my observations an enormous amount of Candy Crush) and they both told me “We bought you clothes.”

“What do you  mean?” I asked, assuming this was some sort of trick where I would end up ambiguously dressed as a woman.

But when the showed me the articles of clothing, all I could see was coolest clothes I had seen outside of the wardrobe worn in Girls.

According to the New York Times, “The fashions on “Girls” may not be aspirational, but they are very much intentional.”

Well, New York Times, these cloths were both aspirational and intentionally made for people destined to dine on moon cheese and magic wishing sprinkles. They were like the curtains in the house of awesome had been taken down by the Von Trop’s nanny and sewed into garments suited for setting life’s cruise control and enjoying a piña colada during the ride. I immediately liked them and had no idea how I had ever lived without them. My sisters had not only purchased me clothes with no strings attached, they had purchased me clothes that Indiana Jones would most certainly wear on the weekends.

Then it happened again. This time I was in bed asleep. My sister Teresa woke me up. “Hey,” she said, “I got you this shirt. And these shorts.” She threw the garments across my reclining figure and peaced out. I held the duds up to the light, checking for ticks and malaria. Finding nothing amiss, I put on the shirt immediately. Proof of the coolness of the clothes was in the fact that my brother Jacob needed only twenty-four hours before showing up the dinner table wearing one of my new shirts. Jacob worked at American Eagle in high school, so he knows a good, striped, nautical t-shirt design when he sees one and I can’t say I blame him for being guilty of both envy and theft.

Today, Jacob and I crossed a new bridge, to a new land—a land where men in Calvin Klein boxers dance atop dollars, daring people to actually pay them for the simple enough task of prancing around in their underwear. We weren’t not wearing underwear (well, I wasn’t), but our gig was being paid models to pose as oil workers for a national anti-domestic violence campaign. I’m visiting my parents in Bismarck, North Dakota, and as people who leave their basement know, the whole Western half of the state is a boom with oil dollars making it rain like Drake the Canadian Rapper.

We modeled on various oil industry backdrops in and around Newtown, North Dakota, one of the epicenter’s of North Dakota’s recent oil boom.

On the three hour drive there clover fields were laughing a yellow color around July green grass. All this was boarded by various lakes and ponds and ranches and farm houses and lonely prairie trees who’d missed their chance for forest, lorded over by recently sprouted windmills.

Land is like a lottery ticket, and despite some changes that make people uncomfortable in ND, I’m glad the state I grew up in happened to be one with freighters full of oil underneath it. It’s opened a lot of financial doors to a lot of people who live here. Trust me, I think we should get off oil too, but for an elongated meantime, I understand we need it. It was hopeful and even foretelling that before we saw our first oil rig, we passed through a forest windmill, a hint at the slow recalibration I hope we continue to make   .

I signed several release forms today that I did not read, so I don’t know if I’m allowed to mention the NGO purchasing the charities. Without naming names it was for an anti-domestic violence and sexual abuse campaign. The oil boom is bringing dollars into the state, but it’s also brining a spike in the type of crimes that were not always as prevalent in the state. Basically we were striking poses that would be combined with text to encourage oil workers to have healthy attitudes towards women and men. That’s right, men are sometimes victims of male on male sexual abuse.

My mom asked what the campaign was about and I told her, “It is to discourage male on male rape. Jacob and I are going to be the face against rape in the state,” I explained to her.

“Well fine then” she said, thinking I was being absurd, “I’ll just learn about it when the campaign comes out.”

“I’m totally serious mom, it is for fighting abuse against women and male on male rape. . .  something I know you are against.” Our politics rarely align, but in this case, we could all agree.

Then my sister entered the room. “I got you more clothes,” she said, clearly addicted, “They are in a bag on mom’s bed.”

But when I looked there was nothing there. Jacob must of overheard and gotten there first. Now that he’s worked as paid model, I can only assume that this sort of behavior will continue.