I’ve been giving a lot of serious thought lately to riding a bicycle to work. I live thirteen miles away.
Co-workers ask if it’s the sudden spike in gas prices that’s caused my most recent hairbrain idea. I can’t deny that the pain at the pump doesn’t play a part, but the biggest reason behind my current motivation is the series of events that have come up recently that play a bigger role in defining who I am. Lemony Snicket might even call them unfortunate.
About six weeks ago, Traci and I were in the car driving from Point A to Point B when she asked “Are you getting man boobs?”
Natural instinct told me to pull the car over and tell her she was walking the rest of the way to Point B, which according to proposed Bike Route #1 would be a little over six miles. I mean man boobs? Really? How is that even remotely close to an appropriate question to ask your husband?
“I do not have man boobs,” I replied, which was true. Sure, my pects probably weren’t really pects capable of jolting to life on command and performing a series of dance moves underneath my t-shirt , but I was certainly in no danger of having to ask Kacie for advice on buying a bra for the first time either.
We rode in silence the rest of the way to Point B, where I pouted on the couch and watched television for the remainder of the night.
A few weeks later Traci called me at work and asked if I had a minute. All of her phone calls to me at the office begin that way. One day I’m going to respond with “For you? No. Goodbye.” and see what she says. Any bets as to how that will finish playing out when I get home? At least it’s not as bad as asking someone if they’re getting man boobs.
So anyway, she called me at work, and after we'd concluded that I did indeed have a minute, she proceeded to inform me that Brady had just informed her that when he grows up he wants to be just like daddy…fat.
“Did you wash his mouth out with soap?” I asked.
Her laughter implied that she hadn’t. In fact, she was laughing so hard she could barely continue the conversation. I hung up on her.
There is a multitude of ways that I’d be a proud father if my children took after me. Fat is not one of them.
Then, just the other day, a friend said to me “Brad, you have serious cookie issues. Cookie intervention may be put into play…” My thoughts? Friends let friends eat cookies, Susan. I’m just saying.
For fear of sounding like a chick, I want to look good in a bathing suit this summer. The BP oil spill wasn’t the only thing that tainted the Florida beaches last year. This go-around, when I put on my swim trunks, I want find solace in knowing that my board shorts are not bored shorts and that they actually enjoy hanging from my body rather than clinging to it for dear life.
The only thing holding me back in my quest to ride a bicycle to work, besides the cold mornings and not actually having a bicycle is that I am trying to iron out the details of the route I will take both to and fro. Thirteen miles translates into just over an hour of intense exercise. Obviously I want the quickest route with the least amount of random incline, but I also need to find the safest path. Dallas drivers are crap, and I’d really like to not wake up dead one day because I was hit by a car. That would just piss me off.
Traci thinks I won’t do it. She says the distance is just too much. Perhaps after nearly fifteen years of marriage she understands my propensity to come up with what seems like a good idea at the time only to never follow through.
For me though, I guess it’s as good a time as any to find a jumping off point in my life where I can try and retake control. What other choice do I have? I’m certainly not okay with walking into Victoria’s Secret on my 40th birthday for their Buy One Get One sale only to have my wife respond to the sales associate by saying “Oh, it’s not for me. We’re shopping for my husband.”
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