the other day, a flickr contact of mine had posted photos from his friend’s going away shindig. i didn’t know the person, but i was intrigued by the series of photos. they were basic snapshots of people drinking and having a good time, saying good-byes, with the focus obviously being the man of honor who was leaving for one reason or another. and i wondered what that man’s story is/was.
i’m often captivated by photos and blog entries of people’s departures. what incites people to get up and move? a new job? a lover is afar? tired of a scene or particular environment (ahem cold weather)? or simply wanting to grab hold of a new adventure?
i, myself, had a farewell get-together a few years ago when i got up and moved to the caribbean. it was a time of flux in my life and to throw fuel on the fire, i decided to be the most impetuous i’d ever been. my job was crap, friendships with some people were falling to the wayside, and i had no attachments to anything. so i figured, why the hell not? turns out, i didn’t hold the ex-pat title for very long, but it was the perspective i needed at the time, and three months was really all it took.
it is no secret that the boy and i were toying long and hard with the notion of a cross-country move. after our first visit to san francisco together (the trip where we got engaged), we were enamored with the way of life, the people, the weather, the bike geekiness, and so forth. our most recent visit in february, though just as much of a good time, was viewed with a more critical eye. we put on the shoes of would-be residents: could the 7 × 7 mi. dimension of SF keep us occupied? could we forego our random trips throughout the year just so we could afford monthly rent in a high-priced city? would we get outside of the city much to explore other areas of california? were we willing to give up a 1200+ sq. ft. 2-bedroom apartment for maybe a 700 sq. ft. 1-bedroom place? the answer to all of those: no.
chicago, through dreary too many months out of the year to dwell on, is a fabulous city. it’s affordable, has a boatload of great restaurants, is bike friendly, and above all, has some inspiring and fun people whom i call dear friends. admittedly, our creature comforts are too numerous and important to sacrifice. perhaps if we were 7 years younger or so and not accustomed to certain ways of life, the trek and lifestyle change would be easier to stomach.
having said all that, though, i’d be lying if i said we won’t ever move. we already know our next destination. we already know it will be one ginormous endeavor. but it is a ways off yet. much to prepare for, much to anticipate.
and when the time comes, i imagine we’ll have a pretty big bon voyage bash. and maybe onlookers will wonder about our story, and perhaps, be inspired to embark on new adventures of their own.
16 April 2008 [2]
i hate falling, though it’s an inevitable part of life when you commute via bike ~90% of the year, even in times of inclimate weather. regardless, falling off your bike, tripping on your own feet, missing a step, all seem like silly, preventable acts to me. in my own little world, they suggest elements of defeat. i recognize that to keep some perspective and humility, everyone should be knocked on their ass every once in awhile. but it doesn’t mean i have to like it.
i’m a healthy, active adult, i should have complete control over my motor skills. so what generally happens when i do take a tumble? i get mad. quite literally. i curse, i yell, i have been known to kick my bike—i pretty much throw a tantrum. was i ever conscious of this display? nope. not until the boy pointed it out not too long ago. he said my behavior is actually alarming and scary. and when i thought about it, i guess my reactions are a little over the top and uncalled for. to that end, after naz’s warranted mocking, i started laughing at myself.
so last night, when i was booking home from an excellent night of sewing at cinnamon’s house, nearing completion on my second skirt, feeling pretty good about my accomplishments, my head was elsewhere when suddenly my bike flew out from underneath me. i slipped a bit over a wet patch/gravel/who knows, lost partial control, regained it, overcompensated, then ended up sliding on the pavement on my chest after landing badly on my left arm. my bike, tossed off to the side, leaning against an old, beat-up truck, upside down.
i got up, shook it off, looked at my bike that seemed fine despite a twisted brake lever, and then realized my arm was in pain, though movable. i dug for my phone to let naz know that i fell off my bike (i did not state “i had a bike accident“—that phrasing has a more negative connotation for me), and since i was so close to home, he met me halfway.
when he met up with me, he asked how it happened. what did i slip on? was it a pothole? was there ice? and honestly, i couldn’t remember. i believe it was the combination of my speed, some loose gravel and the wet road that caused the spill. and when he asked how i fell, that, too, eluded me. i know i slid on my chest for a bit, but i don’t remember hitting my arm with any impact though the pain suggested otherwise. i do know i didn’t hit my head, which is always a good thing. how i clipped out of my pedals, no clue. falling off a bike always happens literally in milliseconds, it’s difficult to recount the chronology of events.
naz then asked if i got mad. and looking back, i didn’t. in fact, i acknowledged the fact that i hadn’t fallen off my bike in a while, so i was probably overdue. and then i giggled, though i worried about the pain in my arm. figuring nothing was broken since i could still move it, my biggest concern was whether or not i’d have enough mobility in my hand to finish my skirt. obviously, i can still type, so sewing by hand shouldn’t be too difficult. glad to see my priorities haven’t gone out of whack.
19 March 2008
