3 minute read
How To Ride A Bike, Again: A Guide For Returning Adults
Step One: Stand bike up.
Step twO: Sit on bike.
Step three: Balance yourself.
Step FOur: Wobble forward, very timidly.
Step Five: Remind yourself you can do this, you’ve done it before, you can do it again.
Step Six: Wobble some more, but get a few pedals in.
Step Six-pOint-Five: TELL yourself you CAN do this!
Step Seven: Realize you are doing this! You knew you could do it!
Step eight: Stop, there’s a tree!
Step eight AGAIN STOP STOP TREE LOOK OUT—
Step nine: Ouch
Step ten: Get band-aids.
Step eleven: Make a note to buy knee pads.
Step eleven-pOint-Five: Spend an hour down a rabbit hole looking at knee pads— aw look at the kids ones! And the kids bikes! They’re so tiny and cute, aww look at themmmm
Step eleven-pOint-Six: Do I want kids?
Step twelve: Realize that you need money and a partner for a child— you don’t have either.
Step thirteen: Un-add baby clothes from your online Target order.
Step thirteen-pOint-Five: Download Tinder, and regret it almost immediately.
Step thirteen-pOint-Six: Refuse to uninstall Tinder on the offchance there might be a good person on there. Hey, it could happen! It happened to your second cousin’s ex best friend!
(Step thirteen-pOint-Seven: Uninstall it later that night after you receive an unsolicited picture that will leave you scarred for life. On what planet is that okay??!)
Step FOurteen: Oh, right! Remember you were trying to learn how to ride a bike again.
Step FiFteen: Stare at the bike for fiteen minutes.
Step Sixteen: Take a deep breath, and remind yourself you can do this.
Step Seventeen: It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.
Step eighteen: Get on the bike again.
Mary Caruthers Class of 2024
Coffee Grounds
There were grounds in my coffee this morning. Specks of black riddled the top of my roasted hazelnut, gravel and sand in my otherwise crisp brew.
I shouldn’t have said anything. My hands weren’t broken; I could use them to scoop out the impurities. But that wasn’t the point.
My favorite part of the day was enjoying a steamy cappuccino.
The dawn still young; twiggy creatures just beginning to belt morning melodies
The aura peaceful, the day yet to commence.
My husband and I would flot to our sunroom each morning
To enjoy our coffee; beaming rays would warm my sleepy soul
As the heat from my cracked cup slowly subsided.
He never could remember it wasn’t dishwasher safe.
Dark roasted would slip down my throat and awakened My senses; light roast sloshed inside his thermos. His taste buds never matured after years of frappés.
I would read while drowning out the buzz of the news program he insisted on watching
I savored this time and clutched the serenity to my heart
The peace grounds me through the growing anxiety My therapist labeled as unprocessed trauma.
My husband demeaned it to female hysteria.
The crunchy soil tainted my liquid gold. I’d have to forgo my literature and hold my tongue as “liberals are corrupting the youth” stabbed my sensitive tympanums.
Brewing my coffee is the only thing I ask of him After washing away the remnants of the day I shovel the grounds and place the cup before I go to bed to ensure perfect piquancy.
He can never get the intensity just right
“Just push the button and froth the milk, dear.” “Alright, but you’ll have to show me how.”
With a strained but ever-present smile, I did
I’m a fairly patient and understanding woman, but even I have my limits. One thing. Just this one thing.
I turn to him, my voice feathery and mellow. “Darling, there are grounds in my coffee.”
“What? Oh, here, take my spoon and get them out.”
He could only bother to half avert his eyes from the screen.
A smile. “I could, but there are likely More at the bottom. And it’ll take off y foam.” A sigh. “Well, what do you want me to do about it?”
“Nothing, dear. Wouldn’t want you To miss your show.” Silence. I closed my book, resisting the urge to throw it at the wall.
The peace had passed, the froth now soup in the cup of mud. My craving for coffee was gone; I opted for vodka instead The warm drip now a scorching burn.
There were grounds in my coffee this morning But the bitter taste left behind wasn’t from the joe.
