Maybe

From the draft vault...

Making life plans as a single person, especially a single person who anticipates joining forces with someone at some point, is a funny game of embracing independence and living life while leaving room for a someone special to sidle up and live along with you. Decisions on where to live, what to buy, and how to plan for the future affect and will be affected by this elusive someone, which sometimes makes a single girl feel like she's frequently amending her Plan B.

I've been chatting with an old acquaintance, now a financial planner, and he keeps grilling me on my current saving schedule, my intentions for paying for my future kids' missions and college educations, and most confusing of all, my THREE YEAR PLAN. Sorry, Travis, I don't know if three years from now I'll be working, schooling, or making babies. I could be here, I could be there, I could be trouncing around the Saraha Desert for all I know. It's not that my life depends on a man, but fact of the matter is that if the man fits me, I'm happy to fit my more malleable plans to fit with his.

It's like this song from Annie. Little orphan Annie goes about her day musing over her elusive parents, picturing them in their day to day activities of bill-paying and piano; wondering if they're strict, if they collect ashtrays and art, if they've sewn her a closet full of clothes. All these things would affect Annie if she found them, and ultimately she admits that it doesn't matter as long as they are hers. Good thing, since Daddy Warbucks had to have been about the furthest thing from what how she pictured the rest of her life going (Good thing it wasn't Tim Curry and Bernadette Peters, really what creeps!).

I, likewise, go about my life, occasionally musing over what he is like, and how matching lives him will affect my life. Maybe faraway or maybe real nearby, he may be working or schooling, owning or renting. Betcha he's young and smart, and has some passion, though what it is is less important than that he loves it, and will love me. It's a crapshoot, really.



So maybe now it's time, and maybe when I wake, he'll be there calling me baby

Maybe

Hell's Angels, here I come

BAM! Tough old men in beards and leather couldn't strike a scarier picture than this.

For weeks now, well ever since the sun started reflecting on Lake Washington for more than 5 hours a day, I've had the urge to bike across the I-90 bridge. There's a trail that starts probably up in the mountains somewhere, winds around the southern rim of Lake Sammamish, over Mercer Island, crosses the world's 2nd longest floating bridge, heads up a hill, through the Mt. Baker tunnel (!) and into downtown. My commute catches the second half of that trail (left) and every day I couldn't help but notice the dedicated bicyclists peddling hard through rain or shine in abslutely ridiculous neon. This is a far cry from the hellish bicycling of Bangkok, where more effort is spent dodging lorries and motorcycles, and keeping decent than bulking up massive leg muscles and/or enjoying the ride. This way didn't look too bad (except for in the rain, fog, snow, or at 5 am, or in the dark) and I wanted to join them!

So I bought a bike (used frame with newer parts).

Then found someone who lives and breaths bikes (literally).

Then BIKED IT!

Cake-o-rama, I'll tell you what. 2011's first day of 60 degrees plus and I got the best view.
Or maybe me taking in the view is the best view...
Observations from my first trail:
1) Helmets don't look good on anyone (seriously, look at the picture. Snazzy red isn't helping)
2) Big hills are sometimes easy, small hills are sometimes hard. I don't know why.
3) Bicyclists are WAY into their gear, and WAY too into neon, but they are SO friendly
4) There is a whole web of bicycle trails I had no idea existed
5) I need to get me some padded shorts