My Busted Foot, part II

Henrietta strikes a pose.
Originally uploaded by littlee.

Yeah, so Glass Half Full has totally kicked Glass Half Empty’s butt. It’s been a little ugly, actually, as excessive post-victory gloating can be so unseemly.

First, there was the unanticipated outpouring of sympathy and offers of transportation help from my fellow science monkeys on The Section. (There was a rather awkward spell when I had to disabuse many of the rumor that I’d broken my leg. Some seem a little disappointed at the lack of carnage, but quickly regained their composure and began to coo and cluck at my slightly bruised looking foot.)

Then came the realization that I really really like yoga. Like really like it. A lot. While it is not nearly the cardio blowout of my beloved runs up East Rock and in many ways is, as Sophia calls it, “supervised napping,” I have come to appreciate whole new muscle groups thanks to poses such as the mysteriously termed “pigeon pose.” Smashed pigeon, maybe. Pigeon that has flown beak first into a window, perhaps.

Other poses, like “child’s pose” or “warrior II”, make sense and I am able to calmly and meditatively stand or stretch into them with my mind on quiet breathing. However, when Heidi says we’re going into ‘pigeon,’ I must stifle a laugh-snort and my mind inevitably wanders from my breathing off to the various scenarios leading to a pigeon ever having its legs and wings in this particular configuration. Lower Eastside punk rocker pigeon? Over-heated Piazza San Marco pigeon?

On a less meditative, more retail therapeutic note, my slightly busted foot has also provided a solid rationale for the purchase of some very green, entirely fabulous new sandals. Having mothballed my surprisingly large flip flop collection due to bad ergonomics, I found myself shuffling about in the same sneakers every day. Sneakers in summer are a bad idea. And given my hatred of socks (and sneakers without socks in summer is downright WRONG) this new pair of pea-green beauties are the coolest thing happening.

But the third thing, the REAL news, is the BIKE. She’s a metallic blue Raleigh – not dark blue or light blue just sort of a mellow medium-ish blue. She’s a ten speed with old school shifters that take some gentle prodding, no easy ‘click’ here. Her rear break squawks like a startled goose, and the left pedal down stroke makes a shrill squeak with each revolution. Her seat is pretty much rusted into place, too bad it’s about two inches too low. I’ve only had her for a week and I LOVE her.

We go careening around New Haven together, taking on potholes and snow plow-crumpled sidewalks with gleeful abandon. And I have learned new things. I have learned that New Haven is positively teeming with bike racks. Everywhere I look I now see nifty metal bendy things for locking up. I never noticed these before – my pedestrian’s eyes unable to detect them amidst all the other poles, fences and mysterious ticking stoplight boxes that crowd the concrete jungle of downtown New Haven. I have learned that the only commuters who score higher on the “Out to Lunch-o-meter” than Connecticut drivers are Connecticut pedestrians. So I wear a helmet. I have also learned that bike chain grease is right up there on the top of the Impossible To Remove Stain List but that I am still not quite willing to wear one of those Velcro strap y things to protect the cuffs of my pants.

I have decided to name her Henrietta. This is in keeping with my ridiculous habit of naming all things that either transport or entertain me on my way to school: Isabelle the iPod, Izzy the iShuffle, Etta the Jetta. I think she likes her new name, as well as her new role as my trusty steed, especially after years of sitting in my friend’s garage having to stare enviously at The New Bike. When Carol dropped Henrietta off at my apartment last week, she didn’t really say whether the bike was mine to keep or a long term loan. She did say that this was a bike she’d had since 7th grade – so I’m assuming that I’m not the only one with strong sentimental attachments and I may eventually have to send Henrietta back to Carol’s garage. Sad.

At least for the next couple of months though Henrietta and I will squawk and squeak blissfully around town. Hopefully my foot will be shipshape by the time Glass Half Empty, a.k.a. New England winter, comes and covers the city in a layer of grimy ice and I have to hide put Henrietta away for her winter hibernation. Which reminds me, I still haven’t thought up a names for my ice gripper shoes that get me back and forth throughout the arctic freeze. Hans and Franz maybe?