Specifically, this one:
Come on, look at it. Nothing says “I’m approaching 40 and drive a baby blue minivan” more than this motorcycle.
I’m not even entirely sure why I really want a motorcycle. When I was a very small child (maybe 4), my dad had not one, but two bikes. I was terrified of them.
They were loud. My dad took me on a short ride around the neighborhood one time and I don’t recall much except peeing my pants in sheer terror.
I’m not really a “thrill seeker” either. I think I went on the “Scooby Doo” ride at King’s Dominion once when I was 11. I spent the entire ride reciting Hail Mary’s and promising God that if I lived through the experience, I would never step foot on another roller coaster again.
I am actually pretty certain that if you looked up “Giant Wussy” in the dictionary I might not be the picture next to the entry, but I would definitely be in the “see also” section.
Think of the children
I have been told that motorcycles are 2-wheeled coffins of doom. According to the CDC, in 2008 the fatal injury rate was 2 in every 100,000 riders. The nonfatal injury rate, or what Mrs. Nostrikethat lovingly refers to as the “I’m not feeding your vegetative body applesauce for the rest of your life” state, was a whopping 60 per 100,000 people.
However, according to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, there were 12.31 vehicular fatalities per 100,o00 population in 2008, which I think combines cars and motorcycles. Here’s another fun fact, the national pedestrian fatality rate was 1.38 per 100,000.
In Florida, it’s 2.58, because, well, Florida.
Today happens to be my 15th anniversary. There are people who have killed other people and are now getting out early on good behavior who have shorter sentences than I do. In fact, if I add in the time we spent dating (5 years), I have spent more of my life with Mrs. Nostrikethat than without.
You could say I have a lot invested in this relationship.
Upon informing Mrs. Nostrikethat of my intent to eventually one day purchase said motorcycle, I was informed I would be getting the motorcycle with a side order of “Divorce Proceedings”.
I am not an expert in female communications, but I am fairly certain this was intended to be A Threat and not a A Gift.
The problem, as I see it, is entirely in my head.
In my head, I think when I get on a motorcycle (that I have never ridden, and have no idea if I like it or not), I will look like this:
The cigarette will magically appear in my mouth, the hair will grease back, and there will be a whole list of things for me to Rebel Against, which is awesome because right now the list consists of “Lipitor” and “Pants with Fiesta Waistbands”. Basically, I need some good rebelling.
Unfortunately, I know this isn’t really true.
BUT I WANT IT TO BE.
In reality, I probably would look a lot closer to this:
So my options seem to be:
1) Continue quiet rebellion and ignore the fact that I have become the Establishment
2) Get motorcycle and live out James Dean fantasy alone, and possibly in a vegetative state.
Unless I go for a walk in Florida, then all bets are off.
Happy anniversary, babe. Thanks for putting up with me and my crap.