I had a lively Saturday night out drinking with some fine new ladyfriends and dancing with my fun new roommates, but I made the fatal mistake of wearing my magic red maryjanes, which are my lucky favorite shoes, but rest atop some wholly-unsuitable-for-walking-across-Brooklyn heels. After walking home at 4 am on freshly-bloodied stumps, my Sunday morning plans—waking up at 8 to go run in an act of support for my dad, who was running the Chicago Marathon—were shot. Instead, I woke up at noon and spent the majority of my day washing and bandaging my feet and watching Newlyweds: Nick and Jessica until Bryan called and invited me to go see Kill Bill. Via his borrowed motorcycle. I accepted immediately, but once he pulled up in front of my apartment, I panicked.
I was brought up to avoid motorcycles like the black death itself. It’s a running joke in our family that my father, ever since I was a toddler, will use any lull in a conversation to warn me against bringing home any bikers. Once, as a little girl, I was playing outside with my best friend Ben when some neighbors working in their garage thought it would be a cute idea to pose us on their bike and take a picture. In the photo, Ben is seizing life and the handlebars with both hands, raring to go, while I’m perched behind him, frozen in terror, and you can practically see me thinking OH MY GOD WHAT IF MY DAD FINDS OUT ABOUT THIS. In our house, there was no Satan, only motorcycles, and I was sure I was going to die a fiery death at any moment like any proper sinner should.
It was hard to overcome my ingrained motorcycle reflexes once Bryan pulled up, but I was determined to act cool, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to walk anywhere, so I sucked it up and pulled on the helmet and climbed on behind him. It was sort of like having sex for the first time in that I kept my eyes closed for the first five minutes and was terrified he’d find out I was terrified, but once I opened my eyes and got used to it, it was probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I seriously don’t think I’ll ever be able to just drive a car ever again without being sort of let down, and I really fucking love driving cars. At one point we were at a red light next to a Subaru sportswagon with a Tweety Bird shade on the kids’ back windows, and I felt so superior I can’t even explain it. The best part, aside from going across the Manhattan Bridge on the back of a speeding motorcycle, was when we went into the theater, and I got to carry my helmet with me and pretend to be a badass. However, when I got home I had to change the bandages on my raw feet and I’m still scared to mention this outing to my father, so I’m so totally not a badass. Like this comes as a great surprise to anyone.