We're bike shopping. The Freckle and I. And we've discovered an itsy bitsy problem.
This is him:
The Specialized Sirrus Expert that Frecklehead is eyeing.
And this is me:
The Raleigh Retroglide that I'm salivating over. Pretty, no?
If you know us, you probably are.
I'm the one who can't sit still. I'm the one who will sprint 10 miles on a whim. I'm the one who's high strung, who's an anxiety sponge, who was nearly booted out of kindergarten for kicking the elementary school principal in the shins when I didn't get to go outside when I demanded. I'm sort of like speed on wheels. Eighteen wheeler wheels. On the freeway. Being driven by that Earnhardt kid.
He's cool. Calm. Serious. Mellow. He makes plans for things and then goes about accomplishing them. In order. He's orderly like that. He's a cardioglider. A golfer. A softball with friends kind of guy. In our 'fridge, his beers sit crammed onto the shelf next to my perfectly lined up and facing forward EAS shakes.
He should be the beach cruiser. He should.
But he's not.
He wants to take 20 or 30 mile treks up the coast on one of those toothpick topper seats that I fear will rob him of his manhood. He wants to get those helmets that channel the people of Avatar.
Ride or die, dude.
Pray for me that he doesn't start wearing spandex.
I want a basket so cute that it makes you vomit. I want to cruise up and down the beach and around the town square slowly enough that my bikini stays in place. I want to hold a coffee in my hand, an Ipod in my pocket, and a peanut on my lap while still steering like a champ. The only piece of gear that I think should grace my noggin is a pair of exceptionally stylish shades.
The problem is, a good chunk of the time that we'll be riding these bad boys, we'll be riding them together. And if he's zipping around in a Maserati, I've got to be able to keep up.
What to do?
Knowing that we couldn't resolve these differences on our own, we did what any married couple does when they're at a breaking point. We sought professional help.
Kailee, the pint-size girl at the bike shop, listened to us argue for about 15 minutes. It was probably the most unexciting 15 minutes of her life. While fights with my former lovers used to include airborne objects and dramatic exits, Andrew and I use such civilized lines as, "Well, I disagree, I think..." and "How about we try this..." Reading the encyclopedia is probably more interesting than our arguments.
Anyway, like a good psychologist, I mean bicycle sales girl, Kailee took stock of all of our needs and wants. Then she recommended this beauty to me:
It's a Raleigh Hybrid model called Coasting. And I fell for her. Hard. Besides being insanely attractive, she has gears and gadgets designed for me to keep up with my very own Mr. Freckled Armstrong. Keep up enough, anyway. Not a bad compromise, eh?
The brown leather seat is just screaming to meet my tushy.
So what do you think? And what kind of wheels are you?