Friday, December 11, 2009

Don't Be a Baby

I knew last night when the Steelers succumbed to the hated Browns that the lesson before me was something like, “count your blessings,” or “at least you have your health” because it certainly couldn’t be anything like “it all works out in the end,” or “this is indeed the best of all possible worlds.”

Another way of putting this is simply, “suck it up and deal,” or “it is what it is,” or, as had been offered as counsel online: “Don’t be a fucking baby.”

The problem, though, of course, is that it’s hard to say anything that doesn’t come off as complaining even when you’re merely stating the obvious, which is why, I guess, everyone tends to get along better when we’re pedaling our legs than flapping our gums—not that the latter doesn’t have its ample charms, as well.

I managed to not only locate the bike gang last night but also to arrive at the de facto clubhouse south before many of the wayward riders and was rewarded for my alacrity by getting a selection onto the karaoke dance card, which resulted in a spirited, albeit pathetic, rendition of the Joan Jett classic, “I Love Rock and Roll,” a tune, I belatedly came to see, has a lot more lyrics than one might imagine—especially if that imaginer is yours truly.

Nevertheless, I’m not crying about it—nor the extinguishing of the Steelers’ flickering playoff hopes—because to do so would be nothing more than another round of banging my spoon on the high chair, an enterprise as degrading as it is fruitless, and one which, in the spirit of last night’s theme, I hereby eschew.

And besides, even though it was chilly, the night, clear and dry, could hardly have been better for a December bike ride, and even I’m not a big enough baby to cry that just because things could be better, that they’re not perfectly delightful just as they are.


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