Spin Cycle

I promise, this will be the last Sex and the City-related post for a while.  But I gotta get one more in - the marketing blitz has warped my mind to the point of viewing the world through pink, sparkly glasses...

 

One of the things people love/hate about SATC is the formula.  Most TV shows have one - it what keeps them consistent, earns the viewers' loyalty, and (in the case of a good one) allows the writers to take the characters pretty much wherever they want and still have a cohesive show over many seasons.  In the case of SATC, that formula includes four characters based on stock female archetypes, in plotlines that are generally tied together via a vague metaphor for relationships that is articulated via Carrie's voiceover/column for the week.  I find my overall impression of the quality of a particular episode is directly related to how well (or poorly) the four characters' stories are integrated into that central theme.  Sometimes, it's incredibly awkward, and the puns are...well...a stretch.  But, when it comes together in an organic fashion in a way that flows seamlessly, well...it's right up my alley.

 

So, in that spirit, and in the spirit of all of the girly cinematic goodness happening all over the world this weekend, I'm going to try to write this post as if it were a column a la Bradshaw.  I've not been writing a whole lot lately (although there are still some Request Week posts coming), and I've heard of some very famous authors getting over writer's block by adopting someone else's style and knocking out a quick piece.  However, the first rule of writing is to write what you know, and I know bupkis about fancy restaurants and $20 cocktails and Manhattan and...um...girly shit, so I'm going to go with a clumsy metaphor that has been pretty much following me around lately.  One which will probably crash and burn, but here goes.  It will probably help if you imagine Sarah Jessica Parker reading this in voiceover:

 

It seems everywhere I look these days, there's a bike coming at me.  People biking to work...to the grocery store...training for a race...or simply having fun getting around town while mowing down pedestrians for twenty points each.  So, on a Friday night after work, I abandoned the rat race to attend a bike race.  It was THE place to be...if you're into that sort of thing.  Men in spandex, comparing their best times and checking out each other's equipment...they might as well have been sniffing each other's asses like dogs.

The race in question was the Criterium - a "thigh burner served with a side of road rash" in which a mob of cyclists chase each other around a couple of blocks of closed road at high speeds, mostly trying to keep up with the pack and stay on their bike through the next turn.  Meanwhile, the spectators hold their breaths and secretly hope for a spectacular crash at every corner.  As I watched the first few laps, I started thinking about cycles, and the ones we all settle into over time...eat, sleep, work...watching the same shows and movies over and over again on DVD, even though we know them by heart...having the same cocktail at our favorite spot with the same people...obsessing over the same crush that always seems to be there as others wax and wane.  I couldn't help but wonder: in the Criterium of life, are some of us pedaling so furiously that we never realize we're riding in circles?  Or worse - are some of us on a stationary bike?

I spent the following evening with a Very Good-Looking Man (who, it turns out, had been at the Criterium - he showed up for the Elite race, about the time I left).  There's nothing quite like having a VGLM all to yourself for a whole evening.  Even if it's not a date, just being with the object of your unrequited affection and doing something you both enjoy is exciting, and comforting, and special.  Every time you make him laugh - REALLY laugh, not just chuckle at your nervous banter - if you can catch him off-guard and leave him speechless it leaves you  a little high.

Until you're sitting there, waiting for the concert to start, and he takes out his cell phone to send a text message.

"Texting your GIRLfriend?" I say, in my best kindergarten ooo-ooooooOOOO tone of voice.

"Well...I wouldn't exactly call her my girlfriend...yet..."

And just like that, I hit a pothole.

Never one to miss an opportunity to prove I don't care that a guy doesn't like me by asking about the girl he DOES like, I probe for details. 

"Second-year med student...spending the summer in Kenya doing some sort of medical aid..."

Through some thoroughly over-the-top flirtation and harassment, I establish that his general type is tall, blonde, athletic.  Pretty much exactly what I always thought it was, and what I will never be.

"But physically she's not really the sort of girl I usually go for..."

"Spitfire...good banter..."

So this girl is basically me.  Except she's a REAL doctor.  And a humanitarian.  And probably Very Good Looking with her hair in a ponytail and no makeup on.

The rain has started, the pavement becomes slick, and I hit a manhole cover.  I fly off of my bike, and start counting layers of epidermis as I leave them behind on the asphalt.

I think it's once again starting to sink in that he's racing with the Elites, and I'm just...pedestrian.