good things come to those who wait

She is at about rib height, 5 years old, and bouncing next to me as I stand at my desk.

She points to my chest, and asks.

"What are those?"

"The flowers on my dress, or" -I gesture towards my chest- "these?"

"Those!"

"Um, they are part of my body"

"What are they? Why don't I have those? Why are they so big?

"They are breasts, and you'll have them when you grow up"

"Why don't I have them now? It's not fair!"

Final Destination

"I was at the bar with my friends and he came by. He stays 15 minutes and leaves. I was a stop-by... I thought I was the final destination"

My roommate continues to tell me about her night. I can't stop thinking about how awesome the phrase she just came up with is.

"We'd texted about this, talked about it earlier today, he said he was finally so excited to hang out. And then he just... leaves!"

She was a stop-by, not the final destination. Just what we need, another way to be blown off.

Health Class

I'm climbing up the stairs at work when some fifth graders pass me on their way down moaning a chorus of complaints.

"Eww!"
"Gross!"
"Ugh, I feel sick"

It doesn't sound serious, but still I feel the need to ask..

"Girls, what's wrong?"

They answer me all at once

"UGH! We just had Health class"
"From the book"
"It was awful"

They keep going downstairs, whining and clutching their stomachs. I stop laughing to call them back. At the bottom of the stairs, they turn to me

"And the worst of it is,"

I pause and lower my voice to an ominous whisper

"It's gonna happen to you"

statistics

I am talking to this guy, we've yet to meet in person but the emails have been a fun distraction. He disappears for a few days, then reappears with this email.

"I'm used to dating women in the top 10%. Do you think you fall into that category?"

My jaw hits my chest, I sputter out a shocked laugh, and wonder whether he deserves a response. I type...

"I have no idea how to respond to that. "

Some part of me hopes that he will find a way to justify what he has said. "God, I realize how crazy and egotistical that sounds, I've just had some bad experiences..." or "Whoops, sorry about that I was smoking crack".

He responds with...

a picture of his ex-girlfriend.

riding

I thread through traffic. Weaving past cars stalled by red lights, I keep the periphery of my vision open to pedestrians. Forever calculating the distance between myself and them. I hold my breath as little unguarded me slides through the colossal, bone-crunching, semi-trucks. Breathing with relief that my clenched fists weren't crushed between the bike's wide handlebars and their doors. Ah traffic. One of the partners in this dance. Is it a dance? A race? An all out war? It has the fluidity of a dance, the feeling of a race, and the body count of a war.

I could say I ride because it's convenient. Or because it's cheap. Some guess that I ride for the exercise, for stony calves and taught thighs. But really, I do it for this. For that rush of power and control I get when navigating my way from here to there. The giddy high of escaping the perils of New York streets in one piece. The purity of riding cleanses me. There is only so much room for my bull shit on a one-speed. Problems inside my head can't take the concentration I need for the road.

Sometimes I succumb to my desire for passive transportation. I am lured away from the pitted, crowded road by the promise of a few minutes to read, and the chance to let myself be taken instead of powering through. The truth of public transportation is always better than the fantasy. In real life there is rarely a cute guy on the subway (without a wedding ring). I'll give in to an ipod instead of using the time to read, and those five blocks between work and the bus stop feel ten times harder than any bike ride. Given the alternative is it any wonder that I choose the freedom of riding?

I never thought to own a bike before. I bought it because it was on sale and it's pink. It's not the most practical choice but it makes me laugh. I am amused by it's cartoon proportions and color, by it's complete and total disregard for what a bike is supposed to look like. I've become numb to the comments, both positive and negative. It's pink and garish, and sometimes I wonder if that's what saves me as I brave traffic.

I can depend on my bike. It waits outside the school doors, bearing the indignities of stillness. It's wrestled into a small elevator at least twice a day, twisting in ways that rival any contortionist. My bike carries my bags without complaint, no word of their heft or number. It accepts the scratches and lost screws of city life, bounces over potholes and skids through gravel. And through it all, all it asks is that I ride.

New York I Love You, But You're Bringing Me Down

LCD Soundsystem
Sound of Silver

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

Like a rat in a cage
Pulling minimum wage

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

New York, you're safer
And you're wasting my time

Our records all show
You are filthy but fine

But they shuttered your stores
When you opened the doors
To the cops who were bored
Once they'd run out of crime

New York, you're perfect
Don't please don't change a thing

Your mild billionaire mayor's
Now convinced he's a king

So the boring collect
I mean all disrespect

In the neighborhood bars
I'd once dreamt I would drink

New York, I Love You
But you're freaking me out

There's a ton of the twist
But we're fresh out of shout

Like a death in the hall
That you hear through your wall

New York, I Love You
But you're freaking me out

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

New York, I Love You
But you're bringing me down

Like a death of the heart
Jesus, where do I start?

But you're still the one pool
Where I'd happily drown

And oh.. Take me off your mailing list
For kids that think it still exists
Yes, for those who think it still exists

Maybe I'm wrong
And maybe you're right
Maybe I'm wrong
And maybe you're right

Maybe you're right
Maybe I'm wrong
And just maybe you're right

And Oh..
Maybe Mother told you true
And they're always be something there for you
And you'll never be alone

But maybe she's wrong
And maybe I'm right
And just maybe she's wrong

Maybe she's wrong
And maybe I'm right
And if so, is there?

virtue

I invite him to my place. I let him carry my bike into the building, admiring his biceps as he does so. We talk about books, and him being angry at a friend. We end up on my love seat with an arty film playing. All the lights are off. And he's not touching me. I flirt, crack suggestive jokes, he plays dumb. If I were someone who ground her teeth, now would be the time to be racking up the dentist bills.

I watch the screen,
(yawn,
rub my eyes,
calculate the time it's been since I've been kissed,)
as I will myself not to make a move.

Patience,
is not
my virtue.

I think I'm wrong about him. As he says goodbye, I see a spark in his eyes that says "Really? You like me?" and it lights in me an ember of hope.