May 4th, 2004

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Today is the kind of day I want to be outside. I'd like to resurrect my bicycle from the scary place my dad calls "The Shed" and ride it around. I loved that bike when I first got it. For the first five years I had it I spent almost every nice day on it. It was dark pink, with a white seat and white handle bars. It was the best birthday present I ever recieved, hands down. It's sad to think that my bike has now spent several years squeezed in between a lawnmower and a chipper-shredder that hasn't chipped or shredded anything in almost a decade. I think that I might ride out tonight and get it.

You know, writing about my bike has made me almost believe that twelve was a good year for me. I got the bike on my birthday. I was getting more and more into writing that year, turning out half a dozen short stories (most of which I still have) and some very, very bad poetry (which to everyone's mercy have disappeared). That April when I had strep throat so bad I was out of school for two weeks my dad, who was out of work on disability, taught me to love baseball and to play cribbage. But there was also this little matter called Junior High that made life downright miserable. So maybe it wasn't so good. But I guess, the thing is, because I'm thinking so fondly of my pink bicycle, I'd like to remember twelve as better than it was.

I wonder what I'll think of being twenty-five when I'm thirty-eight? Will I gloss over the bad parts - getting laid off right after my birthday, being broke all the time, terrible writer's block for a good portion of the winter - and think about days like today, where it's beautiful outside and all I want to do is write and ride my bike? Or maybe I'll dwell on some of my accomplishments - started a new book, started a writing group, and any more I might have in the next three months? I remember hating being twelve, and wishing I were sixteen so I could drive. I was sure that driving equalled happiness (turns out it was terrifying, but that's another story.) And while being twenty-five hasn't been a picnic, I don't hate it, and I don't think there's any magic age I'd like to be. I'm no longer sure that there's just one thing I need to do in order for me to be happy, so I don't know what I'll say when I look back. Then of course there's the question: does any of this matter? Reflection is nice, but it doesn't get me anywhere.

I think my line of thought has gone too far from my original intention, was to wax poetic about how beautiful it is outside today. I hope it lasts.