each time amazed at my ability to stay upright.
I felt fast and free, finally.
Not Spike Lee doubled back to grab a banana-seated kid’s model to ride behind me.
He pulled up, asking me what I thought.
I stopped in my tracks. “Whoa, is the one with a banana seat an option?” I asked, admiring the lines of his Stingray-type model while we pause by the Dumpsters in back of the store.
“No. You’re forty-six. You can’t ride kids’ bikes.”
“Did my husband tell you to say that?”
“Yes.” He adjusted his glasses. “But I would have said it anyway.”
• • •
So, now we’re a family who rolls exclusively on two wheels. You’ve never seen a man whip out a credit card faster than Fletch did when I admitted that I didn’t hate the bicycle.
I guess you could say I decided to Do the Right Thing.
When Fletch heard that our friend’s special-needs daughter had learned to ride an adult tricycle, he dropped everything to disassemble Big Red and put her in the car so that we could give her away.
I haven’t named the new bike yet because this one doesn’t inspire the same kind of passion that my three-wheeled bike did. But having an appropriate name isn’t nearly as important as actually succeeding at something I assumed I was destined to fail.
Because I can now ride a bike, my world is a wee bit larger and that’s an incredible feeling. Conversely, my backseat is a wee bit smaller. That’s nice, too.
Since I’ve been biking, I’ve discovered all kinds of pretty paths by my house, and I’m awed by the lovely things I’ve witnessed. One day, I got thisclose to a herd of deer hanging out next to the trail and later I had to brake for a family of ducks waddling across my path. I do take my phone with me when I ride, but not to monitor Facebook responses. Instead, I use it to track my mileage.
I’m really delighted to legitimately be able to cross off learn to ride a bike because it speaks to an accomplishment, minor though it may be. But, it’s mine and I earned it and that is enough.
I’m still not buying bike shorts, though.
9.
L IVING L A V IDA M ARTHA
The year 2011 blew goats.
Yes, I just made a Wayne’s World reference because I’m all about the classics.
To keep 2012 from following suit, I came up with a yearlong project in which I decided to live my life via Martha Stewart’s dictates, spanning the domestic spectrum from cooking to crafting to cleaning. From apple cider vinegar to zucchini fritters, I quickly discovered that there’s nothing Martha hasn’t mastered, at least under the roof of one’s house. My theory was that if I could whip my home life into shape, I would be a happier person.
Spoiler alert: Despite an almost pathological need to derail myself, my plan worked, but that’s a whole different memoir.
In April of 2012, I’d barely scratched the surface of the Martha Universe, having tackled only some minor closet organization and one disastrous Easter party at that point, which had culminated in a couple of visits to the emergency room.
(Sidebar: Sometimes my learning curve looks more like a learning roller coaster.)
One of the reasons I was so damn crabby in 2011 was my frustration over not having had any traction in Hollywood. (What’s my favorite wine? “But aaaaaaaall my friends have moooooovie deals.”) In the very beginning of my writing career, I spent an entire day at my temp job fielding calls from film studios.
That was surreal.
There I was in a corporate real estate office, making twelve dollars an hour, sitting at a desk that wasn’t even officially mine. I was just assigned there until the real assistant who was out having knee surgery could come back. I spent my days looking at framed pictures of her family, using her stapler, and trying not to eat all the M&M’S in her jar. (Failed, FYI.) Yet for a very brief period, I also was using that full-time employee’s phone (having been too broke for my own cell phone) to talk with
I felt fast and free, finally.
Not Spike Lee doubled back to grab a banana-seated kid’s model to ride behind me.
He pulled up, asking me what I thought.
I stopped in my tracks. “Whoa, is the one with a banana seat an option?” I asked, admiring the lines of his Stingray-type model while we pause by the Dumpsters in back of the store.
“No. You’re forty-six. You can’t ride kids’ bikes.”
“Did my husband tell you to say that?”
“Yes.” He adjusted his glasses. “But I would have said it anyway.”
• • •
So, now we’re a family who rolls exclusively on two wheels. You’ve never seen a man whip out a credit card faster than Fletch did when I admitted that I didn’t hate the bicycle.
I guess you could say I decided to Do the Right Thing.
When Fletch heard that our friend’s special-needs daughter had learned to ride an adult tricycle, he dropped everything to disassemble Big Red and put her in the car so that we could give her away.
I haven’t named the new bike yet because this one doesn’t inspire the same kind of passion that my three-wheeled bike did. But having an appropriate name isn’t nearly as important as actually succeeding at something I assumed I was destined to fail.
Because I can now ride a bike, my world is a wee bit larger and that’s an incredible feeling. Conversely, my backseat is a wee bit smaller. That’s nice, too.
Since I’ve been biking, I’ve discovered all kinds of pretty paths by my house, and I’m awed by the lovely things I’ve witnessed. One day, I got thisclose to a herd of deer hanging out next to the trail and later I had to brake for a family of ducks waddling across my path. I do take my phone with me when I ride, but not to monitor Facebook responses. Instead, I use it to track my mileage.
I’m really delighted to legitimately be able to cross off learn to ride a bike because it speaks to an accomplishment, minor though it may be. But, it’s mine and I earned it and that is enough.
I’m still not buying bike shorts, though.
9.
L IVING L A V IDA M ARTHA
The year 2011 blew goats.
Yes, I just made a Wayne’s World reference because I’m all about the classics.
To keep 2012 from following suit, I came up with a yearlong project in which I decided to live my life via Martha Stewart’s dictates, spanning the domestic spectrum from cooking to crafting to cleaning. From apple cider vinegar to zucchini fritters, I quickly discovered that there’s nothing Martha hasn’t mastered, at least under the roof of one’s house. My theory was that if I could whip my home life into shape, I would be a happier person.
Spoiler alert: Despite an almost pathological need to derail myself, my plan worked, but that’s a whole different memoir.
In April of 2012, I’d barely scratched the surface of the Martha Universe, having tackled only some minor closet organization and one disastrous Easter party at that point, which had culminated in a couple of visits to the emergency room.
(Sidebar: Sometimes my learning curve looks more like a learning roller coaster.)
One of the reasons I was so damn crabby in 2011 was my frustration over not having had any traction in Hollywood. (What’s my favorite wine? “But aaaaaaaall my friends have moooooovie deals.”) In the very beginning of my writing career, I spent an entire day at my temp job fielding calls from film studios.
That was surreal.
There I was in a corporate real estate office, making twelve dollars an hour, sitting at a desk that wasn’t even officially mine. I was just assigned there until the real assistant who was out having knee surgery could come back. I spent my days looking at framed pictures of her family, using her stapler, and trying not to eat all the M&M’S in her jar. (Failed, FYI.) Yet for a very brief period, I also was using that full-time employee’s phone (having been too broke for my own cell phone) to talk with
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