A Joyful Noise…and other sounds

I suppose that most of us realize at different points along the way that we have become too old for some things.  One thing I am too old for is pretending.  My daughters ask me to play their pretend games with them sometimes and I find I struggle to imagine the dramatic stories I was able to come up with when I was little.  There is a genuine mental block there and it’s all I can do to come up with a reasonable pretend name.  So, I am too old to pretend.  That’s one.  Another thing I am too old for is the commercials that play in between Saturday morning cartoons.  When I was young, the loud man in the commercials seemed to be the fount of all wisdom and unquestioned authority as to what was fun and what I needed to tell my parents I wanted.  I caught a glimpse of a commercial this morning (maybe 5 seconds) and I couldn’t change the channel fast enough.  I was ready to toss the TV out the window.  But the only reaction my four year-old had was to say “Mom!  Those are the shoes I want!”  Grrrr.  Too old for kid-stuff commercials.  Finally, I really thought I was too old to do something so quintessentially childish as crashing my bike, but no.  I was on my way too work, pedaling merrily along, listening to my ipod when I hear a noise that sounds an awful lot like a flat bike tire.  I look down and sure enough, my front tire is flat.  Before I could even slow down, the bike is already out of control and falling over.  Even as I was falling I was thinking “Really?  Am I really wrecking on my bike?  Maybe I won’t get hurt.  I’m an adult after all.”  It’s at this point in my fall that I have instinctively put out my hands to catch myself and I land on the asphalt, my palms taking the brunt of the fall, the handlebars twisted around and digging hard into my lower right abdomen (as if that region hasn’t been through enough already).  I lost one of my shoes somewhere in the process and I find myself sitting on the hot asphalt, trying to figure out what in the h-e-double hockey sticks just happened!  I looked around, but of course nobody is out in their yard, (At noon.  On a Saturday.  In July.)  except for two teenagers who casually glanced in my direction when I fell then continued their conversation.  I picked my self up, rolled my injured bike off the road and walked to the closest house that looked friendly.  (Some houses just look friendly.  Some do not.  You know what I mean.)  I knocked on the door and a young girl came to the door.  I held up my bloody hands and said I just crashed on my bike and could I please use their phone?  I wanted to cry.  I felt like I was seven all over again and I just wanted to be home, not stranded, asking for help from strangers, I just wanted my mom (or in this case my husband) to come and get me and take me home.  Speaking of husbands, mine didn’t answer our phone, which I could have probably guessed because when I left home not ten minutes earlier, he was working outside.  So then, the lovely woman whose home I was in offered to take me home.  Her name was Mirabelle, and she was so kind.  She dropped me off and I limped into the yard.  I showed my hands to my husband who promptly put his arm around me and helped me inside.  Then I cried.  I think the sympathy from other people is what turns on the water-works for me, more than the actual event.  I felt so silly for crying, too.  I mean, what exactly was I sad about?  It hurt, but I knew I’d be fine.  Was I embarrassed?  A little, but not enough to cry.  Just enough to look sheepish.  No, I think it was the feeling of helplessness, of feeling lost and disoriented, much like a child would.  So, to end this cheery tale I’ll share a bicycle joke, rather appropriate for the day:  What’s the hardest thing about learning to ride a bike?  The road.

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