Let me start this off by saying, first of all, that Hubby is fine. However, last night I was greeted at the door by several wide-eyed children, gesturing silently, but furiously, at their father. Apparently, they had not quite recovered from the sight of him being escorted out of a squad car, because he had been struck by a SUV while riding his bike after work and needed assistance to get home.
He, despite being battered and unable to bear any sort of weight on his wrist, is adamant that he is a-okay. He didn’t even take today off work. Idiot. I’d be off for a week, reclining dramatically on the couch, you know, next to the front window where the light is most flattering. “No, no…. don’t worry about me,” I’d be saying, before requesting that, if it wasn’t too much trouble, could someone pretty please bring home some chocolate peanut butter ice cream and also, be a dear and fetch me a blanket before you go. And this month’s issue of Vogue, please and thank you.
Actually, that’s a lie, since I never would have been hit at all. This whole episode underscores how differently Hubby and I maneuver through the world. Hubby was 100% in the right with this accident. He was hit where our local bike boulevard crosses a busy street. He was in the crosswalk, you know, the one with the overhead flashing lights and a sign that says “State Law: Yield to Pedestrians and Cyclists.” Needless to say, the driver did not. Yield, that is. Hubby was stuck hard enough to make me rethink my devil-may-care, no helmet wearing ways. (I KNOW, okay? But I’m nerdy enough on my own, thank you, and many days this hair is all I have going for me.) But herein lies the difference: Hubby is not angry he was hit, exactly, but he is FURIOUS that his right-of-way was not respected. I would never have entered the crosswalk in the first place. Not if there was a car within half a mile of the thing. Assume that the car will stop for a bike? Of it’s own volition? No, WAY, buddy. I’m not putting one pedal in that crosswalk. Not if I had the right-of-way and was pulling a cart of air raid sirens and floodlights.
This is super typical of us. Hubby moves through the world in an unencumbered manner. He pretty much assumes things are going to unfold as they should, which allows him a cheerful confidence about the whole thing. He is absolutely flabbergasted if they do not. I, on the other hand, am much more vigilant about the whole thing. It’s not that I think things WILL go wrong, I just know that they might. Like, we’re both enjoying the movie, but one of us has made damn sure she knows where the emergency exits are. It requires a certain amount of energy, yes, and perhaps speaks to a lack of trust in the Universe in general, but then again, only one of us got hit by a car. So there’s that.
Luckily, this isn’t the kind of difference that causes any sort of rift between us. I tend not to notice it, except for those times when I have to ask him to please stop trying to murder our children each time we cross the major street a few blocks over. (Again with the right-of-way! Cars do not necessarily stop for pedestrians! Not even though it’s, technically, the law. Please cease filling the children’s heads with such nonsense!) On the contrary, I suspect that we are good for each other. Sometimes, I just need a break from formulating contingency plans and “what ifs.” At those times, it’s nice to decide to relax a bit and trust that, well, if Hubby isn’t worried about it, neither am I. For my part, I like to think that I’ve saved his life on several occasions. My staunch refusal to budge from the curb when within eyeshot of a motor vehicle may annoy the crap out of the man, but he’s never been run down on my watch!
In the end, I’m so dang happy to be able to write that the only casualty last night was his bike. He’ll be back riding to work as soon as we get a replacement and his wrist heals. Please watch out for him while you’re driving. He does have the right-of-way, you know.