Someone Please Carry Me Everywhere I Go Because I'm Not Going to Make it There Myself

They say riding a bike is something you never forget, but those people have never tried to ride one after ten years of driving a motor vehicle and then smashed headfirst into a parked car. After the collision, which was witnessed by more people than I care to remember, I dusted off my torn jeans and decimated pride and walked the bike back home without leaving a note because “I broke your car with my face because I have the motor skills of a drunk baby giraffe” was more than I could bear, and I wasn’t sure if my car insurance covered being a moron. In reality, there wasn’t really any damage to the car, and I sort of toppled over like a toddler on a hoverboard, but in my memory it was much more dramatic. The adage, “It’s like riding a bike” to me means “It’s scary and fast and you stand a good chance of being run over by a bread truck or blimp or small dog. And your route looks like you’re trying to trace a polygraph test.” The only time I have to tried to ride a bike since then was on a cycling tour of Paris, where I fell off twice amid a storm of panicked cursing and abject shame and probably did more damage to the international image of Americans than Gary Busey as a diplomat to the UN. This is particularly confusing as I used to be able to ride a bike with some proficiency in my younger days when driving a car would have led to me crash landing in the kitchen of a Tastee Freez and then enjoying an extended stay in a juvenile detention center. Wheeled vehicles have always been somewhat problematic for me, though, like the time I got one of my Barbie roller skates stuck in a fence at the tennis court across the street from my childhood house and then screamed for what felt like a week but was probably five minutes until my dad came to free me. The worst part was that they were brand new skates and the act of forcefully ripping my foot out of the fence caused the offending heart-shaped cut-out on the toe to warp into the shape of a shriveled potato, and I am just a little compulsive so I eventually abandoned the roller skates altogether in favor of another less-mutilated pair because I am, and have always been, super chill. After all of these incidents, and the time I fell off my bike into a bush due to an overly enthusiastic rendition of “La Macarena,” if I need to go somewhere, I drive or walk, or decide that that party on the other side of town is too much of a hassle and stay home in favor of having Buzzfeed identify my celebrity boyfriend’s favorite soup or tell me what kind of mustard I am. It’s spicy yellow. Obviously. Next question.