So I'm a writer, see, and as such, I write, so I spend a lot of time on the computer. You'd think this would lead to typing proficiency, right? Well you'd be wrong...at least in my case. In just the last two sentences alone I have had to backspace and delete more times than I care to admit. I just did it again.
Some might say it's simply carelessness in the face of speed or an inability to spell. Once again, you'd be wrong. See, my affliction would be...fat fingers. There, I said it. My name is D.P. Davidson and I have sausages on the ends of my hands.
I remember an episode of Seinfeld where Seinfeld was on a date with a woman who had man hands. It creeped him out when she touched him. I don't have man hands but I do have little smokie fingers. As a matter of fact, my wedding ring is two sizes larger than my husband's, Manly Mr. D.
Thankfully delicate fingers were not on his list of required features in a mate. Actually, there were a lot of things that were not on his list, for which I am grateful. For example: balance, as in the ability to.
Which brings me to my next comment. I fall down. A lot. All the time. As a matter of fact, I was determined to eat a concrete sandwich on Saturday but thankfully managed to fail in that. Mostly.
See, what had happened was Mr. D was taking a walk around the block and I agreed to accompany him on my bicycle (we'll call that mistake # 1). He was walking kind of slow like and in trying to stay with him, I was a wobbling mess (mistake #2). Seeing I had the sense of an infant monkey, he suggested I go ahead, which I went ahead and did, after a fashion. I'd ride away, flip a u-y in the street (bad idea #1) than ride back to him.
A car was coming down the road as I was on my way back to him, so I pulled up onto the sidewalk so I wouldn't get hit or something awful like that. Well then I was in Mr.D's way so I tried to reverse walk my bike into the street (super mistake #3).
I lost my balance and since experience has taught me that fighting the fall just makes it hurt worse when I land, I let myself go...into the street. As a car was coming. Driven by a man who was 1. unconcerned I had fallen in the street and 2. unconcerned that I was still in the street as he drove by.
Had I not pulled myself out of the way, Big Jerk would have run over my head. Mr. D. was dumfounded, not because Butthead McGee almost ran me over but because I made no effort to stop my fall. Man and I have been married over thirteen years. You'd think he'd underdstand that fighting the fall only leads to stitches. He's been there for most of them.
Oh well.
Anyway after my third attempt at death by bicycle, I concluded it was best to just admit I am cyclic-ly challenged. Not all the time mind you, but once we were home, I pushed my bike into the garage, patted it's little white seat and told it I'd see it when I had more protective gear.
Anyone know where I can get a full body helmet?
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