"You need therapy."It's amazing how many times I hear this over the course of a day, but to be honest – if I could afford the luxury of therapy and the time it would take to lie down and whine about this and that, I would likely have fewer reasons for needing therapy. And besides, crazy people get more personal space in public places. No one ever wants to cuddle up next to the lunatic mumbling about Jesus, or Vietnam, or, is it really that hard to distinguish between sweet and sour and fucking barbecue sauce!?
Honestly. It's dipping sauce. If I have to turn around and wait in line again so some pimpled moron in a paper hat... well... never mind.
And retail therapy is just not for me. The notion of heading into a mall or a boutique to somehow ease the burden of life simply baffles me. No one ever opens fire on a tennis court, or in a backyard full of roses.
Having said that, I have been dreaming of purchasing a new bicycle. A few years ago, some little prick stole our mountain bikes, and after a year or two of suppressing my anger over said theft, I decided it was time to simply "let it go" and drag my old hybrid "Mom" bike out of retirement. A quick tune-up at Jack Nauss' quirky little Bicycle Shop on Agricola, and I was good to go. Of course, the same little prick who stole our mountain bikes, also took our helmets – so I picked up a jaunty, yellow flowered Bell helmet that the Little Bastard says makes me look like I should be riding the special bus.
Nothin' wrong with special.
Riding a bicycle in Havenot is a life threatening disease, what with the lack of bicycle lanes, and lunatic drivers like myself who have a total disregard for cyclists with no knowledge of the rules of the road. Riding a bicycle carrying a swinging plastic bag full of wine bottles is just plain crazy. (And they say crazy people don't know they are crazy.) I was just about to head out and put my Canadian Tire money toward a new carrier, when I remembered there was an old wicker basket down in Lake Basement.
There is a point to this, besides, this is therapeutic for me, so piss off and stay with me.
Indeed there was a trusty, dusty old basket, but it was lacking the two straps necessary for securing it to the handlebars. I needed something strong. Something that would hold at least 750 ml. I considered cutting up an old bra, but instead, I hopped on my bike and headed to the adorable cobbler at Quinpool Shoe Repair. He knew exactly what I was looking for, and tried to fashion one out of bits of leather and an old buckle. After a gallant attempt, he conceded that I was, once again, on my own, looking for support(s).
Heading up Quinpool, I signaled and swerved into one of the trendy new cycling shops. I have been admiring the two-wheeled pieces of art they flog to eco-freindly commuters with a death wish and a line of credit. Bikes in delicious ice cream colours with matching price tags hang in the window of their "gallery". I was no longer in the market for a new bike, but maybe they had an inexpensive buckle or two.
Sporting my shiny new helmet, they were quick to spot a potential customer and were all over me like a cougar on Chardonnay. When I explained what I was looking for, the girl waltzed over to the accessories wall and grabbed a shiny package containing fancy leather toe straps with adjustable brass hardware. She proceeded to rip open the package, and went about describing how she would cut the long straps of Corinthian leather and somehow make it work.
"Isn't that a bit of overkill?" I asked. "How much are those things?"
"Only ten bucks." She replied haughtily.
"Holy fucking commies Christly Vietnam." I muttered. I just need to tie a basket to a handlebar, not bungee jump off a goddamned bridge.
"Thanks." I said. "Maybe I can find something simpler, cheaper, and far less European at Canadian Tire."
"Fine!" she snapped, angrily shoving the pricey leather straps back into the packaging. "If you want to shop at Canadian Tire, go ahead!"
No shit. Verbatim.
I spun around and thought about what I should do next. I had so many options and I was wearing a helmet, so chances are if I went for Option A: Diving back through the plate glass window and grabbing the bitch by the throat – at least my head was protected.
Instead, I held my yellow-flowered head high and walked out, past the trendy bicycles and straight to Canadian Tire, where – for $1.97 – I bought an entire bag of thin plastic straps that got the job done, perfectly.
I also popped into Patricia Graham Massage Therapy's new location at 6156 Quinpool and booked an appointment for a long, therapeutic massage.
You see, while it has been suggested that I could reap the benefits of regular therapy – truth is – the power of kindness, a little exercise, and the human touch is unparalleled.
And call me crazy, but the inner strength and peace that comes with unabashedly donning a flowered yellow helmet at this stage of the game is pretty special indeed.
halifaxbroad@gmail.com
Patricia Graham Massage Therapy is now at 6156 Quinpool Road.
To book an appointment call 902.576.4500 or email: patriciagraham@ns.sympatico.ca.
For a tune-up and your very own yellow, flowered helmet drop by Nauss Bicycles at 2533 Agricola St, Halifax, 429.0024.
For the cutest damn cobbler in town head to Quinpool Shore Repair at 6424 Quinpool Road.
