My wife looks better riding a bike than I do. It can’t be helped: she’s much prettier than I am (although I rate a close second), and between the two of us, I’d much rather creepily leer at her while she pedals than I would me.
Not one to let a soul-crushing thing such as losing a beauty contest get in my way, however, I fought back in the looks department by donning a new pair of gel-padded gloves. “They’ll help you rest your palms,” the salesman suggested.
I gave him a look.
“For biking, for biking!” he insisted. “You’re not buying them for any other reason, even if you’ve been married nigh over nine years, I’m sure.”
Well…
“Also,” the salesman hurried on, “they’re guaranteed to repel pirates and, every other Tuesday, lead you to a leprechaun’s pot o’ gold.” Every word, I believed it. Of course, the salesman was me as I talked myself into buying something on-line, but I’m very convincing when I try. I like to try to talk myself out of things, and some of the time I mostly win all of the time. (Nate Silver would be proud of that last sentence, I just know it.)
The gloves, they arrived and tonight I got the chance to finally wear them. There’s me, see?, pedaling down the driveway; there’s me, a stunning figure in repose (I don’t know what that word means; ignore it), gliding down the street in effortless motion; there’s me, miles away from my house, attacking a giant hill, grunting, screaming, yelling, tongue purple, eyes bulging black, cheeks… bright appleish, but calm, tranquil, serene on the inside because all those colors match well with the color of my–
Goddamn it, I forgot the stupid gloves.
Won’t stop me. Not me. Reality’s a loser today because my shirt has long sleeves and will wrap PERFECTLY around my naked hands to make my own pirate-repelling gloves. There’s no gel, but pay no mind; there’s no real range of movement what with the sleeves kinda mummifying my hands, but no huge concern; there’s no way to pull on the brakes because…
And that’s how my leg ended up all scraped to hell. In case anyone asks.