Yesterday I realized: loneliness is when there’s no one to say "don't do it" when you’re standing in a store buying professional cycling shorts with "padding." Yes, the ones that make your backside look like an overripe eggplant. My plan was as solid as a Swiss watch: I roll my brand-new mountain bike into the park, fly into the wind, hair streaming behind me, and I meet HIM. Also on a bike, with muscular calves and a bottle of electrolytes. Our eyes meet, he admires my aerodynamics, and we ride off into the sunset together. 🚴‍♀️✨

Reality made its adjustments ten minutes after the start. As it turns out, shifting gears isn't rocket science, but my fingers decided we were in a Boeing cockpit during a crash. Trying to gracefully dodge a puddle (one where I’m pretty sure new life forms were evolving), I got tangled in my own legs. You know that moment in cartoons where the character hangs in the air for a second before realizing the futility of existence? That was me.

I landed in a "dying swan on concrete" pose right in front of a bench where... no, not a prince was sitting. There sat an elderly man in a sun hat, intently reading a newspaper. He slowly lowered his glasses and asked, "Dear, did you lie down like that on purpose, or did your parts just fall off?" My knee was scraped, my elbow was stinging, and my 110 dollar leggings were now elegantly ventilated through a fresh hole. 🩹🙄

The worst part? My "dream cyclist" rode right past me. He didn't stop. He just technically bypassed my body, tossing a brief, "Watch the turns, fix your helmet." At that moment, I realized my feminism grows stronger with every scratch. Why do I need a man who can't appreciate the epic nature of my fall? I stood up proudly (as much as one can with a pant leg stuck in the chain), brushed off the dust, and limped home. Today, I’m icing my knee, eating ice cream, and thinking that skydiving might be safer. At least there are no grandpas with newspapers up there.