He's perfect, they said.
He's perfect , I said.
In so many ways and
so perfect for me.
He's perfect, I said
with a smile thin as crepe.
I'm not, I whispered in the dark of the night.
I'm not, I feared to the listening walls.
And we all know the fate of the god-loving mortal
And we all know that they are a whole 'nother species
So I searched for his faults and I tallied them up,
and then I felt better...but just for a bit
because, why would I want to date someone so flawed...?
Just a little poem that came to me as I dried off from my morning shower.
It made us giggle.
I read it to him and we agreed that it would be a silly thing to read during the toasting portion of our wedding.
That we'll have on 10-10-10, for anyone interested in coming.
There is so much to say.....
but I'll start with the motorcycle stories.
A couple of nights ago it was the end of a hot day, begun with a long walk/jog across these winding roads--
which reminds me of the poem that came to me while riding the next day,
but I'll get to that in a minute.
And now I've ruined the surprise because in the next part of the story you will be given the chance to wonder if I survived my first ride...
(ok, so it's hardly a surprise that I did; I AM writing this, aren't I?? ...unless it's my ghost...woooooooo....ooooo....ha.)
So the night was warm and thickly dark around us,
so much humidity that fog was imminent and was felt before it was seen.
The bike purred, a crotch rocket engine with a more upright-riding position...don't ask me what type it was; it's a Bandit, that's all I know.
So we geared up--
helmet fittings and jacket try-ons.
I scored a snug helmet and the use of his best (armored) jacket.
I giggled with glee to be clinging to the back of my Truest Love aboard a machine that is my truest love.
I wrapped my arms around him, legs pressed close around his hips.
The first ten seconds were coooool, man.
And then he opened up the throttle like a drunk opens a bottle of whiskey on his way out of jail.
We found the spot on the speedometer with a 1, 2, and 0 next to it.
I hardly had time to notice the silly numbers
I was so focused on winning the wrestling match with the wind.
The wind, tearing me from my love.
The wind, ripping angrily at me, possessively--
this bike, this man...they are mine.
My tiny fingers dug holes in the leather of his jacket and every muscle in my body yearned to be one with the body in front of me.
He did that several other times on our 20 mile run.
By the end I was whimpering, shaking.
Ok, by the beginning I was whimpering, "No, no, no..."
And I know it's silly, but I found myself praying to my motorcycle-slain bro-in-law to save me.
Apparently he did.
We got off the bike and all I could think was, "If I tell him how scared I was he won't think I'm cool, he won't want to take me for more rides."
But, ya know.
He's my True Love and that means he only needed one look at my face and he held me and promised not to go so fast with me on back ever again.
The sweet Boy Next Door in him said in a shrugging way, "Yeah, that was more for me than you anyway."
So yesterday we needed to go return a camera to his friend out in the boondocks
(and that's saying a LOT because this is Maine...everything is sort of boondocky, even the state capital) and he suggested we take the bike.
After requesting his promise not to try to kill me again, we geared up and set off.
Of my life.
(this week, so far)
Seriously, it was gorgeous.
And he didn't fly off in record time again, although we did technically go "too" fast at times.
Any bikers out there may not be surprised to hear me say it was like meditation.
Head clearing, mind soothing.
It was beautiful.
A gorgeous day, my love wrapped up in my limbs.
The friend's house had a wide, clear pond and I wandered over to it.
There were giant tadpoles and teensy tadpoles
and luscious green frogs, sparkling and pulsing in the sunshine.
As we wended our way through the undulating hills of inland Maine
(so sturdy in its marked lack of lace-like inlets, tidal rivers, and rocky beaches)
we both drank in the sights.
Meadows and green, hilly vistas!
There were some men sawing through trees
and the smell reached me on delay as we sped past--
pine and raw, still-breathing wood!!
I shudder in delight just remembering it!
There were lakes and ponds and rivers and hardly any cars.
It was inland, after all.
Tiny little General Stores and the man stroking smoothly through that lake across the street.
Ramshackle barns against horizons of green rolling meadows,
blue sky licking down between the cleavage of gentle hills.
Nature's Masterpiece, I tell ya!
And then we roared into the parking lot at the Harley shop and my panties REALLY got wet!
Walking reverently through the showroom,
a finger trailing over a smooth leather seat,
a cheek pressed lovingly to the cold gas tank
as I bend toward the handlbars.
The "Small World"ness of this place gave me a smile as we chatted with another biker who heard where we lived and tossed out a name and I bit--
my friend's friend! And he knew my friend, too; I knew he would because they all ride together.
Then off to lunch (I was growing lightheaded, so I tore myself away) and
on to the Suzuki showroom.
They also had a bunch of used bikes of other brands--
a fucking GREAT 2007 Honda Shadow for way less green than I would have thought...
and even a Harley for less than I expected but Honey says it's too whimpy and that they are overpriced.
I am JONESING to a. be back out there riding and b. learn to DRIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!
A beautiful day, then home for a shower and into summer clothes for an evening on a docked schooner, a Chamber of Commerce networking opportunity for some, a gorgeous end to the day for all:
Ok, I'm off to pick up some groceries for this Bachelor Pad Extraordinaire.
Sweet One will have a phone interview for a job and then we will head down to Portland for dinner with a comedian friend of mine and apres drinks with a high school friend.
Here is the aforementioned Poem From the Road:
There are no straight lines in Maine--
except the trunks of the mighty pine forests.
The rock walls are tired, having given in to gravity.
The roads wind and wiggle, bend and sway,
dancing their way through the countryside.
The towns are a clumsy handful, a jumbled arrangement of odd-shaped stones
(like the ones lining the narrow beach of Crockett's Cove).
The horizon is jagged, encroached on by pines.
And the shoreline is ever-surging inland--
the ocean taking shark bites out of the landscape.
I just left the land of straight lines
and linear, inside-the-box thinking--
rules and restrictions,
of new construction is the only home to buy,
and towns lined up neatly along the freeway like polished little school children on picture day.
Straight lines do not exist in Maine.
And that feels just right.