Well, I was proud of me

I just rode my bike home from the grocery store, laden on all sides with packages. I had two carrier bags hanging from my bike rack, one bag strapped to the top and a heavy canvas tote slung over my shoulder. My balance was precarious and I rode on the sidewalk to avoid careening into traffic.

Directly in my path, and headed in my direction, was a couple walking their puppy. I realized that we were going to pass each other right at the trickiest part of the sidewalk: that place where a small tree would force me to navigate inward. I could only keep my momentum going by pedaling; if I stopped I was likely to tip over.

I narrowed my eyes and approached the couple with keen concentration. "Easy," cautioned the man as we drew abreast of one another. This was the moment: with deft maneuvers I steered around the tree and then veered around the couple. We slid past each other with absolute ease.

"Good girl!" praised the man, and I beamed.

Then I realized he was talking to his dog.

Smacked by my rack

Last September I participated in the 15th anniversary of Critical Mass in San Francisco. It was my first time doing the ride and I wiped out in unspectacular fashion: my back wheel got caught in a cable car groove and I flipped off my bike. It was unspectacular because I was traveling at less than one mile an hour.

Nonetheless, I managed to hurt myself pretty good. I went down hard and landed on my left shoulder. My friends had to drag me to the side of the road, where I spent a few moments in shock; all I could register was that my front wheel was crooked and my left thumb wouldn't work. Nobody had seen me fall, but I suspect that I was thrown over the handlebars. Leave it to me to be vaulted off my bike while practically standing still.

My friends fixed my wheel and my thumb gradually went back to normal, but I sustained an injury to my left shoulder that still bothers me today. It clicks when I rotate it and pains me when I lift my arm straight up. It's hardly a debilitating impairment, but there are certain things that I can't do anymore. For instance, I can't do a shoulder stand in yoga. I can't do certain hoop tricks on my left side.

And I can't get out of my sports bra.

Now to be truthful, I've always had difficulty extracting myself from a sports bra. They're so damn tight and slippery, you've got to pull like hell to free yourself. Many a time I've yanked hard on the Spandex, lost my grip and slapped myself in the face. I guarantee, nothing will piss you off in quite the same way.

I recently decided to take up running again, which required the purchase of a few new sports bras. I found a garment I rather liked: it's black with white piping and cute enough to wear as a top, if I ever have abs worthy of display.

My friend Gina and I went running on Saturday morning. It was a hot, sunny day and I was dewy by the time we finished stretching. We took our first few running steps and I was startled by the Boing! in my chest. "Whoa!" I said out loud. Gina looked at me curiously. "New sports bra," I explained. With serious spring-loaded action.

My buoyant momentum carried me for the first several minutes, but fatigue set in as my body remembered that it's out of shape. I was fairly drenched by the time we finished our run and my clothes were sticking to me. I bid Gina goodbye and headed home to shower.

Once home, I peeled off my outer layer and attempted to shuck the sports bra. Nothing doing. I could not wiggle free of the Spandex straitjacket. I wrenched around to view the back side in the mirror, as if that would help. No hooks, of course.

Flinging my right arm over my head, I fumbled until my fingertips caught hold of the sweaty fabric. I pulled and wound up with both my arms sticking straight up in the air, my elbows strapped to my ears. I felt pain in my left shoulder, so I shimmied the bra back down and planned my attack from another angle.

This time I crossed my arms over my front, grabbed both sides of the bra and pulled. The back of the garment wanted to give, but the front wouldn't come up. It was caught on my chest. My grip was slipping and my shoulder was burning, so I gave an almighty tug...and my elastic bosom snapped up and hit me in the face.

I was bitch-slapped by my own boobs.

My face stung and my shoulder throbbed, and I blasted out a couple of good swears. I couldn't believe I'd survived my first run in over a year, only to be injured while taking off my clothes. These are the kinds of things that happen to me.

But I can't be the only woman who's ever endured this. Right? Surely some of my well-endowed sisters have suffered similar embarrassment? If so, I want to hear about it. Drop me a line if you've been smacked by your rack.

Let me know I'm not alone.

Stupid Murphy

Yesterday just pissed me right off.

It was one of those days at work where everybody needed something. I was trying to concentrate on a big project but every few minutes there was a phone call or an email, something that demanded my immediate attention. I'd been working through my lunch hour all week in order to take the afternoon off for my doctor's appointment, and when I left the office at 2:00 I hadn't gotten much accomplished.

I went through the dance routine of dragging my bike on the BART. It goes a little something like this: Unstrap tote bag, unhook pannier, pick up bike, walk up 2 flights of stairs, put down bike, scrape right calf. Re-situate pannier, re-strap top bag, wedge bike into small space on train, move to accommodate wheelchair. Fight through the throng to exit train, unstrap tote bag, unhook pannier, pick up bike, walk down 2 flights of stairs, bang right ankle. Re-situate pannier, re-strap top bag, exit station.

At the doctor's office I explained about my reoccurring ailments, the sore throats and the chest colds. The doctor took a cursory peek in my mouth and said I looked fine, except for some rather large tonsils. I asked if I ought to have them removed but she was noncommittal. She diagnosed me with allergies and suggested I take an over-the-counter medication.

I wasn't satisfied with this diagnosis so I pressed my case. To appease me she did a strep culture and measured my peak flow, and of course I exhaled like a champ, lending little credence to my breathing complaints. My peak flow registered normal, just as my computer always reverts to its best behavior when the IT guy comes around.

"Allergies," she said again in an authoritative way. I left her office in a funk. What a weenie diagnosis. I mean, who gets ill five times in one year from allergies? I was ready for some kind of disease, man. Give me something I can stand and fight! But don't send me home with Flo-Nase and a wimp reputation. Come on.

I went across the hall to the pharmacy to collect my prescription. In addition to the nasal spray I was supposed to receive a peak flow meter so I could continue to monitor my breathing at home. But the prescription didn't call for a peak flow, so I had to go back across the hall to the doctor's office and wait 15 minutes for the scrip to be re-written.

Back to the pharmacy and this time they tried to give me an inhaler spacer. "But I don't have an inhaler," I said. "Are you sure?" they asked me. "Pretty sure," I said. "I'm supposed to get a peak flow meter."

"That's not what this is," said the pharmacist.

"Uh huh." I said.

She considered for a moment, rubbing her pregnant belly. "Well, we could call the doctor's office," she mused. "But we'd have to leave a message and then wait for them to call us back. It would probably be faster for you just to go back over there."

I'd like to reiterate that the doctor was across the hall.

So I went back to the doctor for the third time. And waited another 15 minutes. Finally the doctor herself appeared and escorted me personally to the pharmacy.

"I do not know what the trouble is," she said in her French accent, which was simultaneously melodic and intimidating. "This girl needs a peak flow and I ask for a peak flow. What do I have to write to communicate this?"

Turns out she needed to write PEAK FLOW.

So we went back to her office so she could write another prescription. And then I returned to the pharmacy - for the fourth time - to complete my transaction.

Back down to the street where I unlocked my bike and looked around for someplace to eat. I'd been planning to enjoy an early dinner before my hooping class and choir rehearsal, but now I was short on time. I decided to grab a quick sandwich at a nearby bagel shop before jumping back on the BART. I spotted a rack and locked up my bike, then lumbered into the store with my heavy bags in tow.

Inside the bagel shop I immediately regretted my order, but it was too late to change my mind; they were already assembling the food. I paid for my sandwich and was just sitting down at a table when the overhead lights went out. Confused, I looked back toward the counter. "Sorry miss," said the shop owner. "We're closed now. You have to leave."

Great.

I shouldered my bags and stepped outside again, looking around for someplace to eat. I settled on bus stop bench and took a bite of my sandwich. It was tasteless and they'd used the wrong kind of bagel. With a sigh, I pulled out my library book and balanced it on my knees. The dinosaurs had just escaped in Jurassic Park and I wanted to see who got gutted next.

"You been here long?" There was a slick looking businessman with thinning hair and unnecessary sunglasses resting one foot on the edge of my bench. "You see the Number 12 bus come by?"

"Sorry," I said after swallowing. "I just got here a minute ago." I turned my attention back to the dinosaurs.

"Does the 59 go to Oakland?" he asked.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I'm only sitting here because the bagel shop is closed. I'm not actually waiting for a bus." I flipped a page and resumed reading.

The man spied my bike helmet and thought he'd made a friend. "I just started biking to work myself," he confided. "Man, I'm loving it."

On another day I might have been more encouraging but I was hungry, cranky and into my dinosaurs. I was seeking five minutes of peace with my tasteless sandwich before I resumed the pace of my day. So I mumbled, "Well that's great," and made a rather large show of returning to my book.

"Really keeps you in shape," he continued, as I closed my eyes and counted to ten. And then thankfully his bus arrived and whisked him away.

I finished my sandwich, stuck my book in my bag and unlocked my bike, which goes like this: rummage for keys, undo U-lock, unwind cable, grab for falling bike, scrape right shin. Hook on pannier, strap on top bag, coil cable, store locks, hike up pants, commence ride. It was five minutes to the BART station where I did the dance with my bike yet again. I ascended to the platform only to discover I'd missed my train by seconds.

Twenty minutes later I was crammed in with the commuter populace, thinking hard about my schedule. I would be on time for my hoop class, but barely. Then I'd really have to book it in order to arrive at choir practice no more than fifteen minutes late.

The doors opened and a man in an electronic wheelchair backed into my bike as he exited the train ("Just a minute sir, wait one second please till I get out of your - Whoa! Okay, ow."). He didn't even look back. I shuffled off the train, did the bike dance and pedaled like fury until I arrived in front of the hooping studio, then hopped off, breathless.

Locked the bike up.

Once inside I discovered my teacher telling the class that she'd forgotten the hoops. She came to hoop class without the hoops, people! "I'm so sorry," she said. "I can go back and get them, but class will start half an hour late. Is that okay with everyone? Nobody has to leave early, do they?"

I do, I said silently.

So much for choir practice.

We hung around the studio for forty minutes, waiting for the teacher to return. Several people had brought their own hoops and they spent a happy time spinning, practicing their moves. I sat against a wall.

It was a great class, once we got going, and I was glad I hadn't left. But we didn't get out until 8:00, a full hour after choir rehearsal had started. I debated whether I should even bother going, but after missing Sunday's service I didn't want to miss rehearsal too. I figured I'd go catch the last 45 minutes.

Unlocked the bike.

I arrived at Glide sweaty and out of breath and heaved my bike up the stairs and into the sanctuary. The choir was onstage, holding hands. They were singing the prayer song, the final song. Our director had decided to end practice half an hour early. I arrived just in time to say goodbye to everyone.

"Goodbye! Goodbye!" they chorused. I waved weakly.

Leah offered me a ride home but I had to decline, as she had no room for my bike. So I lugged it down the stairs, over to the station and up to the platform. Hopped a train, then zoned out for 20 minutes until it was time to wrestle the bike down the stairs. I rode home in the dark.

I arrived back at the building to discover that my usual parking spot was taken; all the hooks on the walls were filled with bikes. I couldn't believe it; in nearly a year no one had ever taken my spot. "Well that's just great," I said out loud. "Complete my freaking day."

All right, that's not exactly what I said.

I wedged my bike in between two other bikes, knowing that it would be cast aside by morning. Then I trudged up the stairs to my apartment.

Monte poked his head out from behind a small mountain of cardboard. "Hi baby!" he said cheerfully. "I'm going through my boxes!"

"I can see that," I said wearily. Our closet was in lovely shape after the weekend clean-out, but the living room was still a bit of a disaster zone. The most dangerous area had been dubbed 'Monte's corner' because of the six large boxes containing remnants of his past. Most of those remnants were now scattered on the floor.

I sank onto the couch while Monte excavated mementos, exclaiming over each as though he were pulling rabbits out of a hat. "Hey, it's my yearbook! Check out that handsome young guy, eh? Wow, I've been looking for that sweater. Wags! I found Wags the Dog!

"Hey, check it out; here are my tapes," he said. "Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, El Debarge...wait, I don't remember owning El Debarge."

"Those are mine," I said, crawling onto the floor to inspect the collection. "Dirty Dancing, Janet Jackson...Ooh! DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince!"

"Oh, we've got to put that on," Monte said.

"Tori Amos," I continued. "Couple of mix tapes. That's funny; look at this exercise mix from 2001. It's got half the same songs as my iPod does right now. I guess I haven't evolved much."

Monte had discovered another box. "What's this?" he asked. He opened the lid and ran his hand over the contents. "Here's your old digital camera," he said. "And a film camera too. And is that your Palm Pilot?"

For a moment I froze. "Baby," I said. "That's the technology box."

He looked at me in astonishment.

The technology box is what I'd dubbed the packing box where I'd stored all my electronic equipment when we moved to California five years ago. It was nowhere to be found upon arrival. After unpacking nearly all the boxes ("These few boxes are mine," Monte insisted. "I'll go through my old stuff later.") and searching the house thoroughly, we'd come to the conclusion that we must have left the box behind at the airport. I'd mourned the loss of all my gadgetry at once. It had been quite a blow.

"This is the technology box?" Monte said in wonder.

"Yes!" I cried. "This is it! Look, there's my mini tape recorder! And all my old zip disks! My headphones! This has been sitting in the closet for five years?" I said accusingly. "In your boxes?"

He shrugged and attempted to divert. "Look baby, your Palm Pilot." He held it out to me.

It worked. "My Palm Pilot," I repeated. "Man, I never thought I'd see this thing again. How cool." I gazed at it for a moment. "You know what's so funny?" I said. "Just the other day, when we were cleaning out the closet, I came across the manual and all the software for this in the - " I stopped suddenly.

"Hmm?" he prompted.

I smacked myself in the forehead. "Just the other day I came across the software for this and I THREW IT AWAY. After five years of holding onto that stuff I threw it away and THREE DAYS LATER I find the goddamn Palm Pilot! Sonofabitch!"

Monte blinked.

"I'm going to bed," I said, and stomped into the other room. I brushed my teeth, took out my contacts and flung myself into bed. I threw Jurassic Park onto my nightstand with a thump.

And my bookmark fell out.