JustRunJustLiveJustBe

Why is it so easy to cry in the car? Hiding behind sunglasses, closed windows and traffic noise makes it that way. And sharing space with others for just fleeting moments helps. Should anyone look over and see a tear rolling down your cheek, you’re making a left turn two seconds later and they’re gone. You’re gone. It’s down time, I guess. Time to think about all that’s been on your mind but you’ve been to busy to bring to the forefront until then. That’s when it hits you.

Over the weekend I was on my way home and catching up with my mom on the phone. I have a cousin graduating high school this week which led to a conversation about the ten years it’s been since I graduated high school. And, subsequently, the reunion to come. I hadn’t received anything about it, I told her. Who knows if they were even having one. It hadn’t occurred to me to do anything about it. As I pulled into the driveway, I stopped to check the mail and, well, what do you know. Right there on top was an envelope addressed to me from Reunions Unlimited. Dear Universe, you got me again. Thanks.

So I open the envelope, see the cost of attending the reunion (blah) and the names of the reunion coordinators with their maiden names in parentheses (yeah), and I let out a deep sigh because I know the heavy feeling in my chest is not from this envelope.

Earlier that day, after having already gone for a run, I decided I needed to get out on my bike. I am determined not to waste this weather, and that is all there is to it. I rode to a local trail area and just set out to ride. About ten minutes in, though nothing had gone wrong, I realized I was in the worst possible mood. I was frustrated and angry with life, with so many things that have come about lately, none seemingly bad enough to complain about but when compiled, it is all enough to suffocate me. And I wasn’t riding well, either. I didn’t feel good.

I blamed this on not having been on my bike in a very long time, and kept pedaling. If anything were going to work this out, it was the heat and some sweat. Or so I thought. Thirty more minutes of riding and I still wasn’t over it. That’s when I noticed my back tire. It was losing air, and I was only minutes from having to change a flat. Great.

So, I pulled over, thankful I’d at least come out prepared, and began the arduous process of changing a bike tire. Oh, how I hate it. And I hate admitting that I’m that girl that wants a boy to change her tire, but I do. Any tire, anywhere. Right at that moment I remembered April. I’m not sure why I’m bringing this up right now, but as far as my personal life goes, April sucked. Yes, just this past April. My heart was high, and then, through my own surprising logic and someone else’s lack of feelings, my heart was very, very low. It was about a month ago today that I declared to a friend, over some kind of drink, I’m sure, that I was “done” with all this and that “the only men I’d even be mildly obsessed with for the rest of the summer were the Boston Red Sox.” And let’s be honest, that has the potential of lasting all the way into October which, sadly, would be a damn fine record around here these days.

So when I was sitting there, alone in the dirt, changing my own tire (when I say tire, I mean tube. Obviously), I remembered April. That declaration I’d made in April would have been a nice thing to take back right now. Because although we didn’t get that close, and all I ever really saw was possibility, short even of potential, the man could have changed my tire. Who needs true love, as long as you don’t have to get down in the dirt by yourself. I reminded myself that it was good that I could change the tire, and how modern and independent that made me. And then I laughed at myself and thanked God no one else was around for my ridiculous internal histrionics as I began to fill the new tube.

And then I ran out of air (when I say air, I mean CO2. Obviously). Okay, great. Look for another cartridge. There was another. It was empty. Okay, hand pump. Um, adapter gone? What? I could not believe it. I had a tube probably 10-15 pounds short of the air it needed, I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and I was a good 45 minutes from home. Whatever.

I reattached the tire, I got back on my bike, and start pedaling toward home. There was a chance I could get to the gas station once I left the trail. That became my new goal. Exhausted, exasperated, desperate for lightning to strike me on an unbelievably clear, sunny day, I pushed along, probably feeling the drag of that low tire more than what was real. I knew I shouldn’t be on it, but I didn’t care.

That’s when I looked up and saw other riders coming toward me. As they came closer, I realized I knew them. I realized that lightning wasn’t going to be what killed me today. Rather, it was going to be the slow, painful torture of embarrassment and humiliation. Because it was Mr. April himself. The one who made me cry and didn’t know it. The one who I’d decided to get excited about, only to realize I was finally mature enough to not ignore red flags. Yeah, that one.

As we saw each other, the air became very still. I immediately stepped out of one of my pedals, taking the weight off the low back tire. We said hello, he introduced me to his friend. I forget his name. We made small talk and then I said I had to go. I had to go. I just had to go. My heart was pounding when I heard him turn around and ride up next to me. I stopped and kept my gaze fixed forward.

“Looks like your tire is low. I just wanted to let you know.”

“Thanks. I know. I’m just going to make it home.”

“Let’s take a look.”

“No, it’s fine. Really, I just ran out of air. My pump broke. It’s fine. Really.”

He reached into his bag. I said no thanks. He handed over a cartridge. I looked at his hand, hanging there waiting for mine, and my heart sank, and I was thankful for sunglasses and the sweat dripping. I reached out, took the cartridge, and said thanks. I wanted to say so much more, but I just said thanks. And then goodbye.

I watched him ride away, and once they were out of sight, I stopped, filled my tire, and rode home. I thought I’d cry, but I didn’t. I’d run out of air in more ways than one. I just pedaled home, walked through the door, took a shower, and didn’t talk to anyone about it for the rest of the day, including myself. I kept really busy. That is, until the drive home in the car yesterday, when it all came from that dark, deep place in the back of my mind where I hide things from myself and everyone else. The reunion, April, the flat tire, the air, it all came forward, into clear view. This is why it is so easy to cry in the car.

When I got home, I dried my eyes, took the dog for a walk and then had four bowls of cereal for dinner. Eh, what can I say, sometimes it’s Tequila, sometimes it’s shredded wheat.