June 15
As I Write This at Work, There's a Gnat Circling Me. It's Probably a Baby, Hatched From the Eggs Laid in My Hair:
So if you happen to be rollerblading or walking along the Farmington Canal Line Linear Park (I only just noticed that it was called a linear park. That cracked me up for some reason. Linear Park! Hee!) and notice a big freak rocketing snot out of her nose, looking uncomfortable in a helmet, that would be me. The snot rocket thing I just can't help. Put me on a bike on an even slightly windy, cool day and I am a veritable nose fountain. If I'm not wearing sleeves, it gets ugly cause then, where do I wipe? I don't! Even sometimes with sleeves, it's just easier to blow. The ground doesn't mind.
The nose thing happens when I hike or climb outdoors too. I will never be lost in the woods. You will always be able to hear me coming. "Where'd Dana go?" "sccccchhhhhhhhhhnnnnnn!" "Ahh...she's 10 feet due north of the shrubbery!" It's why I prefer biking in hot weather. The Nose Fountain is strictly a cool weather phenomenon. Funny that I say cool weather and all, considering the fact that it's JUNE for christssake. It was cold enough last night for me to be sweating and shivering all at the same time! It was warm and humid enough for the bugs to be out in full force. I was the human bug zapper. My mouth was the suicide of choice. I slapped enough gnats from my face to warrant a look in the mirror at my teeth when I got back to the car, and sure enough, as I suspected. Buggy. Gnats don't really offend me, because they're small enough not to make a sound as they hit. Beetles and moths fly into me like little tanks, making a noise and scaring me so that I lose control momentarily and lurch into the path of some oncoming rollerblading chick who is not only without padding of any kind, but without clothes, practically.
Now that I've started wearing a helmet, I feel even less graceful on my bike. At least before I had that cool "I'm defying head injury, I can feel the wind blowing in my hair" kind of way. Now, with my helmet and gloves, I feel like this big fat poser bike-wannabe, pretending like I'm cool and in shape and capable of maintaining 13 mph for more than a mile at a time. All of this, because I'm wearing a helmet. Before, I was just a schlep on a bike going for a ride. Now I'm the same exact schlep, but I have props to juggle. Before, I'd just toss my bike into the back of my car. NOW, I have to strap it to my bikerack. What I enjoyed the most about biking is that the bike was the prop. Now I have to go buy shoes for it.
The things I like the best are the things I don't need to use 50 things to use, if you know what I mean. That's what I love about swimming (well, what I loved, weep weep) it was me and a pool. Sometimes a bathing cap. Never, ever flippers. I didn't need stuff to make me swim better. Nothing I put on might make me less or more buoyant. No matter that ads in swimmer's magazines (don't ask, somehow I was subscribed, for free..) claim that their bathing suit would shave seconds off my breaststroke, I was unswayed. I never bought anything special to swim, and I really liked it. I like not having to elaborately plan to go get some exercise. I like packing a bag and getting in the car. I'm a wash and wear kind of gal, I suppose. I just can't help it.
The problem is that I love to buy stuff. It's all about me being a hypocrite. I mean, I hate being forced to buy stuff for a sport, but damn, do I love going and buying the stuff when I have to. Spending money is an art. I am an artist. Stand back, watch me work.
Stay off the Road Saturday Morning:
Before Nick and I got married, he tried to teach me how to drive stick. (I must confess: I love the phrase "driving stick". It makes me feel like a big randy, horny freak.) This is long before I had my license. Driving stick, you should all know, was something I had never even heard of. No member of my family owned a manual transmission car, ever, so the whole concept was absolutely foreign to me. Day after day, Nick and I would drive to a parking lot (to practice driving his stick, tee hee) and he'd try and try with such utter patience and sincerity to teach me.
Nick: Okay, now, step on the clutch.
Dana: No,why do I have to?
Nick: Because you HAVE to!! Step on the clutch!
Dana: But what's the sense in doing that?
Nick: Because that's how you DRIVE STICK!
Dana: I don't want to. Okay, but I will.
Nick: Right, now, do you hear that?
Dana: No.
Nick: That? The engine?? That's when you need to step on the clutch and put it in gear.
Dana: What gear?
Nick: Put in in first and let the clutch out.
Dana: Wait. Why do I have to step on the clutch if I'm putting it in first? (car stalls)
Nick: Okay. Start the car again, clutch in.
Dana: Why can't I just start it without the clutch? Why doesn't it know just to start?
Nick: (silence) Clutch in. Gear. Start the car.
Dana: Okay.
Nick: Good. Now, ease it into--Clutch! Clutch!! CLUTCH!
Dana: But WHY do I have to clutch??
Nick: I need to drink.
So Saturday, another intrepid soul has offered to teach me to (heh) drive stick. I figure early Saturday morning will be a good time for this because there'll be fewer people on the road, and I will be less likely to go barreling through a large crowd of nuns and school children when I refuse to depress the clutch. I also figure that maybe it'll be easier to learn to drive (snigger) stick now that I have a license and have been driving for a few years.
And What About Saturday Night?
Why, we'll be living la vida loca, of course. Oh, yes. It's the time for the Ricky Martin show. Don't be scared. Everything will be fine. I don't plan on drinking (because, as you all know, I don't drink, motherfuckers) but have a feeling one or two beers might sneak in. You know, just to make it more bearable. I confess, though, that I love Ricky's music. Love it. It appeals to Dana's inner Abba loving, disco rumpshaking freak. He's got a horn section, man. You can't argue with a gay man in Armani with a killer horn section. You just can't. Nicole is going because she thinks he's hot. AND, get this: she thinks he's straight. So young and naive, is my little Nicole.
Lastly:
Tomorrow I'm going to have the road bike Robio lent me for the ride tuned up. I have a funny feeling that in this case, a tune up means replace every fucking thing on it. As with all things that come from Robio (who is not the same person as Rob, for those of you are are still confused about this.) it was probably once a great, expensive bike, but years of being ridden by a rough boy- even though said rough boy did all of his own work on it, and did good work-and then years of neglect (he took it down from the loft of his barn, if you're curious) have made this a bike in need of attention.
So, I've not ever really ridden a road bike. After he did some basic maintenance stuff (took the knots out of the chain, inflated the tires) he urged me to take it for a spin. After 5 seconds of riding, I became painfully aware that things would be different from then on. Comfort was no longer the key. Any of the bitching I did about my crappy Huffy, I took back. What I said after a 25 second ride should be an indication of how bad it was:
"I didn't need a clitoris anyway."
She says "I just might leave tomorrow."
He says "Tomorrow never comes."
So we'll just learn to love our sorrow.
I'll love you tender as you're sleeping.
I'll love you bitter through the day.
