Tag Archives: biking

Getting “Over” It

This morning, on a long (and collision-free!) bike ride with my friend E, she asked how long I took to get over the guy I dated last semester.

As often happens with direct, straight-forward questions about my love life, I wasn’t sure how to answer.

“It’s kind of difficult to quantify,” I said, explaining that it was initially devastating because I’d met him within forty-eight hours of moving to New Mexico, but that I felt “over” it rather quickly since I had known basically all along that he wasn’t someone things were likely to work out with in a serious way.

Also, I told her, I’m not entirely sure I know what that statement means: it’s not as though you wake up one day and realize that you are “over” someone.

E–who, by the way, is in one of the happier and more functional relationships I know–went on to tell me a story in which that was, actually, the case. She described someone she dated in college who was similar to my last-semester guy in that she recognized he wasn’t good boyfriend material, but still felt uncontrollably attracted. After a few months of dating, things ended abruptly and for a long time later she felt angry and hurt.

Until, she explained, they slept together again.

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For E: An Extended Sports Metaphor

Yesterday morning I went biking with my friend E, who, along with a former colleague coming in all the way from DC, has convinced me to train for a 100 mile ride in May. (I am writing this, by the way, in hopes of minimizing the likelihood that I will flake out.)

E and her boyfriend are native New Mexicans, and hence take their outdoor sports very seriously: they ski, they ride horses, they cycle. I’m sure they have more gear in one square foot of their garage than is owned by all of Upper Manhattan.

Fortunately, their temperament is also classic New Mexican: easygoing and patient. So when, yesterday, I went careening into E’s bike after she unexpectedly slowed down and caused both of us to topple over rather dramatically, she didn’t give away a whiff of frustration.

In fact, the first thing she said–the two of us still inspecting ourselves for skinned hands, knees and elbows–was: “At least you can probably make this into a good metaphor for dating!”

Preoccuppied with an aching quadricep, a miniscule patch of ripped skin on my right thumb and the realization that I didn’t, actually, know how to use my brakes, I dismissed her idea.

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