Like Ridding a Bike?

I don’t know how to ride a bike. As a child, I never had any toys, let alone a bike. My job was to wonder around the house looking at the employees (a bakery), or out a window, and not talking to anyone. I went through a helping period when I was about five. The ladies would give me cookie dough, so I could make shapes and keep busy.

My brothers learned to ride because they used bikes to deliver pastries to nearby corner stores. But my sisters and I weren’t allowed alone out the door, for we lived close to the red light district. The “little girls,” as everyone called us all the way to our early 20’s, were closely guarded until we were about 15.

Once in Canada, I tried to learn, on my nephews’ bikes, but I couldn’t. Now that I’m married, my husband and I have entertained several solutions: (1) buying a child size bike so I won’t fall, (2) Getting a 3-wheeler low rider, (3) putting training wheels on a bike, so I can learn like children do.

I am too cheap to spend money on a child-size one. I know that, once I learn, I won’t need it anymore. I don’t like the low riders because I would be “down there” while my husband rides a normal height bike—it wouldn’t be fun. The training wheels always sounded embarrassing. I just couldn’t stomach the thought that everybody would see me riding around with training wheels, like a child. Since I rejected all my options, the project has been on hold for several years now.

Yesterday, though, I discovered a 4th solution, while watching a video of one of my favourite mysteries—Midsomer Murders—I saw a lady ridding a 3-wheeled bike especially made for adults. I fell in love with the bike. The back is so wide that easily holds a basket to even use it for grocery shopping.

Then I found out the price. It costs about $500. Ouch! Then I remembered my option #3, the training wheels, and thought, “If ridding around on an old lady’s bike isn’t embarrassing, why would it be embarrassing to ride with training wheels?”

It occurred to me that all the work I’ve been doing on disregarding other people’s opinions on whatever I do is paying off. For some reason, all of a sudden, I don’t care what others say about my ridding any kind of bike I may choose. I even think I could amuse myself with their looks.

But something more interesting yet will happen, I’m sure. Other ladies who never did learn to ride a bike as children will be encouraged to try my method. Every time I do something daring and strange, it seems, someone else is encouraged to copy me.

I still don’t know when I will implement my plan—next summer, perhaps. It isn’t too appealing out there for a bike ride right now. But it will happen. I promise.

Fuck the brilliance

I grew up in a family where people where illiterate by a developed-nation's standards. They went to school but didn't work very hard, and never read anything that wasn't homework.

I was different. Schoolwork was my entire life and read anything I could put my hands on. I got good grades, but I worked hard for them. Everybody thought I was incredibly smart, though, just because I thought algebra was easy, and they found it impossible.

I, therefore, grew up with the burden that I had to accomplish big things in life, go far, make lots of money, because I was brilliant.

It happened. I did lots of things. But it was a lot of work. I had to give my entire life to accomplishing, because truth be told, I am smart, but I ain't a genius. My IQ is in the 120's not the 170's. By North American standards, I am normal, as opposed to outstanding.

I have always suspected deep down inside that I am not that special, but I still carry the burden of having to accomplish great things on account on somehow being gifted. Well, fuck the brilliance. I am tired of trying to be someone I am not.

I am who I am and have accomplished what I have accomplished: no more no less. I may never accomplish anything in my life ever again, and that will (should) be perfectly fine. As it turns out, I am not Wonder Woman, or Oprah Winfrey, or any other woman that will make the pages of history.

I wonder if I can drop the "burden." Can I just be me? Can I, for instance, work as a clerk at a bookshop and do not feel that I am underachieving?

Can I accept that my body is broken down, aging, and achy, and stop thinking that I should be out there making a large yearly salary? Can I stop hating myself for not even trying to get there?

Can I? Can I?

Is that what I want, though? What the f* do I want?

Do I hate people or do I need people? Can I even stand them? Am I willing to compromise just to be with them? Should I develop some tolerance?

A person with so much shit in the brain can't possibly be that brilliant, so to hell with it.