Very nice bike, beautiful. Great lines, very shiny. However, I would be doing you a disservice if I didn’t point out a couple of things RE: how to look cool on a cool-looking bike.
1. Ditch the green, button-up short sleeved shirt. Van Heusen was never meant for the Harley.
2. And the khaki trousers.
3. Ditto the loafers.
Here’s what I’m thinking: If you spent an assload of money on a bike that nice, you’ve given some thought to
your mid-life crisis how you like to be perceived in the world. But seriously? We’re in the suburbs. And that makes us sarcastic and cynical. We’re a bunch of over-caffeinated, NPR-ed know-it-alls, and we’re bound to laugh at you if you show up like that. Yeah, I did.
Since a cluster of other dads circled around you when you pulled up
totally f’ing up the car line protocol, I can only imagine your intent was to show off your new toy. I don’t have a problem with that, as I’m a bit of a show-off myself.
But, I just have a few suggestions for the next time you decide to pick up your kid on that gorgeous, shining mass
of an unsafe child-transport vehicle:
Wear a pair of jeans. Not dad jeans (you know them–they look about as good as mom jeans do on women). Choose well. It’s important.
Rock a t-shirt. Maybe even a rock t-shirt. But it had better look like you actually got it at a concert at least 20 years ago. No holes, though, or saggy, stretchy t-shirts.
Want my pick? A plain white tee. You can’t go wrong.
Skip the loafers and the sneakers, and go with a pair of these. But wear them around the house a bit to scuff ’em up. I suggest the garage. You know, where the tools are (you’ll fit right in). Maybe then, we’ll think you maybe wore them inside at least one biker bar. Or to Sturgis. If the scuff marks are convincing enough, we’ll take that leap of faith. Because we want to believe.
And for gods sake, wear a helmet. (I assume, though I didn’t get a chance to look, that you had one for your kid.) I know it doesn’t look so cool, but neither do brains on the sidewalk. In front of the elementary school. It doesn’t have to be gigantic and bulky, with wireless reception and a microphone, but put something on your head. Besides, you can totally live that moment when you pull up and take off your helmet in front of the 100 or so moms who, yes, will be watching. As long as you undersell the moment and maybe have a toothpick in your mouth, you’ll be fine.
Oh, and next time? Don’t cut in line. That’s never cool.
That’s all. Just trying to help.
A concerned mom
Dateline: Kitchen table, yesterday morning. I was ushering the kids through the morning business, trying to keep us on schedule. Then, from down the hallway, my son calls to me and says something I never, ever like to hear first thing in the morning. Or ever. But especially not anytime before 8:00 a.m.
“Mom! The toilet’s plugged!”
Shit, I think. shit.shit.shit. (On occasion, I try to correlate my swearing to the situation at hand.)
And the Girl, who is sitting next to me, lights up like it’s Christmas morning, throws her arms wide open like she’s on Broadway, and belts out,
“Haaaap-py BIRTHDAY!” There may have been jazz hands.
She sure knows how to give a good gift, that one. (Naturally, she was the guilty party–she’s incapable of using less than half a roll at a time.) It wasn’t even my birthday.
And me? All I want to say is, “Oh, how sweet. You shouldn’t have.” Really. You shouldn’t have.
Except I was laughing my ass off.