The Bill Murray Bicycle

Is it just me, or does everyone who is told they shouldn't do something become completely obsessed with that which they are forbidden?

I'm Stephanie and I am not supposed to run, bike or lift stuff over thirty pounds because I'm pregnant. None of those taboos are usually a problem because I generally frown on exercise in general or any type of movement that involves working up a sweat. I'm still living by the southern girl mantra "we don't sweat, we glisten".

I've always hated sweating. So much so, I developed an acute case of hypochondria in elementary school just to get out of participating in PE activities. One day the coach pulled a fast one on me and decided we all needed to learn to square dance. I certainly was feeling like a dolt for sitting on the grass with a pretend hernia while every other second grader in my class peed their pants with glee all spinning their partners and do-see-do-ing. I still haven't square danced to this day. Nor have I had an actual hernia. Fingers crossed on the hernia thing.

Now I'm a grown-up (if by definition alone) and can come and go as I please. I don't have to feign illness to get out of exercising and I don't answer to anyone (although I do a good job making my husband feel like he makes the decisions around here).

But WTF? Suddenly I have people telling me I'm not supposed to ride a bike? Which, like I said, would usually be all hunky-dory and shit, except I really can't stop thinking about riding the damn bike now.

My husband and I bought our bikes before we were married and I can count on one hand the times I've used mine. I'm pretty sure his tires still have the little rubber hairs all over them. We really got geared-up at the idea of the wind in our manes and the open road/sidewalk/rugged trail, but when the first trip ended at a hamburger joint blocks away, I think the reality curtain was officially pulled. We aren't movers and shakers. Or bikers.

I sat in the old lawn chair that leaves little plaid marks on the back of my legs in the center of the garage and stared at my bike this weekend. It hung from a hook on the ceiling and looked back at me smirking.

"Oh, NOW you want to ride me. Now you want the wind in your hair and the bugs in your eyes and teeth. Your butt's getting fatter by the second and you haven't moved farther than the mailbox in weeks and you're really missing me aren't you?"

Shut up bike, I'm not allowed.

"Oh, poor Stephanie is all fat with baby and she's too clumsy to ride on Mr. Swifty anymore, boo hoo." (I don't know why, but his name is Mr. Swifty in this story and his voice is Bill Murray from Caddyshack. )

And I thought to myself, I can't even lift the bike off the hook, let alone mount the damn thing. I had to keep turning my chair out to the sidewalk more to keep from drooling and panting over the idea of just pedaling away down the pavement. Before I knew it, I was seriously considering walking next door to get my neighbor to lift it down for me since I knew my husband would have no part in my plan. I'm pretty sure the guy across the street doesn't have kids and wouldn't know I'm not supposed to be riding. He would do it. GO GO GO, I thought.

But I didn't. I just sat there and sunk deeper into my lawn chair and my pity-pit, moping about the bike. And then I made a mental list of all the stuff I really don't like doing, but would give a right boob to do now that I'm pregnant. And stagnant. Running is one. And bungee jumping. Taking a spinning class at the gym I never go to. Ooh, I'm pretty sure I can't do cheer leading stunts with my five year old right now or go water skiing. I'd even do some bench presses if it didn't mean an actual hernia was involved (or worse).

I really just want to ride my bike. And feel as awesome as this lady does:




Maybe now is a good time to catch up on those square dancing classes.