A few people, none of them licensed therapists, have deemed me a manic-depressive. "You waiver between sparkling optimism and leaden despair," they say. "This emotional split even shows up in your voice: squeaky one sentence and sotto voce the next." Okay, so they don't say it exactly like that, but two or three people have shared this unsolicited analysis.
I am beginning to think that maybe they are right. After the scooter was stolen, I tried to look on the bright side. Think positive. Sure, my mode of transportation and mod-tinged coolness was gone, but I vowed to keep my chin up. It's true, the motorless life had its charms. I did enjoy taking walks around the neighborhood and greeting cats in windows, even tolerating the occasional two-mile trek home from work. Riding bicycles around the Loop at two in the morning was a reminder of how a deserted city can seem so tangible, so easily yours. And of course, my body needed the exercise, so maybe there were pluses to losing Vespy.
Well, two weeks into this stint, the dark side has taken over. As I pedaled to work today, the bike's screeching brakes announcing my arrival at each intersection, I realized that I don't really like commuting on the velocipede. At all. My asthmatic little lungs gasp for air whenever I put some muscle into the pedaling, so I cruise at a low speed. Bending over to reach the handles has led to back problems and poor posture. The tires kick mud onto my clothes, so I can't wear my best outfits (and most certainly not my new favorite, "French Mod Intellectual Annie" -- red and white striped shirt, black miniskirt, black mid-calf boots, glasses, neckscarf). The exercise leads to sweating, which will inevitably lead to pimples. And worst of all, pedaling involves moving my thighs and derriere... which means it's open season for the arse-happy catcallers of the meatpacking district. Stupid bicycling!
I am beginning to think that maybe they are right. After the scooter was stolen, I tried to look on the bright side. Think positive. Sure, my mode of transportation and mod-tinged coolness was gone, but I vowed to keep my chin up. It's true, the motorless life had its charms. I did enjoy taking walks around the neighborhood and greeting cats in windows, even tolerating the occasional two-mile trek home from work. Riding bicycles around the Loop at two in the morning was a reminder of how a deserted city can seem so tangible, so easily yours. And of course, my body needed the exercise, so maybe there were pluses to losing Vespy.
Well, two weeks into this stint, the dark side has taken over. As I pedaled to work today, the bike's screeching brakes announcing my arrival at each intersection, I realized that I don't really like commuting on the velocipede. At all. My asthmatic little lungs gasp for air whenever I put some muscle into the pedaling, so I cruise at a low speed. Bending over to reach the handles has led to back problems and poor posture. The tires kick mud onto my clothes, so I can't wear my best outfits (and most certainly not my new favorite, "French Mod Intellectual Annie" -- red and white striped shirt, black miniskirt, black mid-calf boots, glasses, neckscarf). The exercise leads to sweating, which will inevitably lead to pimples. And worst of all, pedaling involves moving my thighs and derriere... which means it's open season for the arse-happy catcallers of the meatpacking district. Stupid bicycling!
I think it's safe to say that my armchair psychologist friends were on to something. But at the end of the day, despite best efforts, ol' doom and gloom reigns once more. Now, if you'll excuse me, the Huffy calls.
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