Today while I was waiting for The Beloved Scabby One to come pick me up on the way to his stitch-removal appointment, I noticed a bike messenger. I’d seen this kid once already earlier in the day and been struck by the fact that, well, he wasn’t wearing a helmet. When I saw him a second time locking up his bike before heading into the building where I work, I just couldn’t help myself.

When he came back from making his delivery, I approached.

“So, are you really a messenger who doesn’t wear a helmet?” I said. He gave me a whithering look and a fuck off “yeah.”

Then I started rambling. “Obviously you know what you’re doing but it’s really dangerous not to wear a helmet and my husband got in this really awful bike accident this weekend and his helmet was the only thing that saved him and all I can picture is his bloody helmet and you know you have to be careful and if you’d seen his face you might change your mind and, and,” (here I started to realize I sounded like a crazy person) “and, well, obviously it’s your choice.”

“I suppose it is,” the messenger said with the perfectly honed combination of sarcasm and dismissiveness. Then he said, “Um, I’m going to go get some samples? From those people standing on that corner?” like he was a senator talking to a special needs three-year-old and biked off as fast as he could.

As I stood there on the sidewalk I had the realization that holy fuck. I just became that woman. The one who hysterically makes you wear your coat even though it’s 50 degrees out because YOU’LL CATCH YOUR DEATH OF COLD and didn’t you know that if you don’t hold onto the hand rail you could FALL DOWN THE STAIRS AND DIE? The worst part was that I was actually thinking of pulling out my Sidekick and shoving a picture of Andreas’ bloody, swollen face under the (unbroken) nose of this 20 year old kid. If he thought I was crazy before, he would have REALLY thought I was nuts at that point.

I just couldn’t help myself, though. I see visions of brains smeared on asphalt everywhere I go. Meanwhile, Andreas is totally fine, other than the fact that he’s been spacey about taking his pain killers regularly so he goes through waves of hurting. But he’s totally fine. His scabs are shedding, his stitches are out, and his swollen lip is much less Angelina Jolie-like. I, meanwhile, read comments like the last one to this post and almost fall out of my chair from the freaking out and feel the need to accost innocent bike messengers on the street.