Next I'll Have a Handlebar Moustache

I'm considering two things: officially obtaining a Massachusetts drivers license (and therefore handing over the last shred of Florida residency that I have), and getting a motorcycle endorsement for it. I love having a car, I love driving, but in the city, a motorcycle is notably more advantageous in terms of parking. In Boston it may only be good for 9 (scratch that--6--no, make it 3) months out of the year, but in the end having that life experience might be worth it. Maybe. 

And so my dad calls in the midst of me weighing the options, which is always a drawn out and precise process to prove non-equilibrium to begin with. I tell my dad that I'm thinking about getting a motorcycle. Without a beat, he tells me to get a 250cc Honda--his cycle of choice from his younger days. He used to drive it from Jacksonville to Charleston, South Carolina he says. The scariest part, he says, was that he got so comfortable cruising along that it felt as though he wasn't moving at all; he says he felt like he could kick out the kickstand and hop off the bike, even though in reality he was doing 70 miles per hour. 

Then he recommends that I get chaps so that I can be the "Motorcycle Guy" on the way to work and the "Suit and Tie Guy" after I arrive. And then he asks me if I already own a pair. 

I couldn't tell you where the actual life I lead ends and the American dream of picket fences, suburbia, pets and luxury sedans begins, but nowhere on the spectrum existed chaps: the prudent and savvy garment decision. Not for Halloween. Not as the April Fool's prank you wish your significant other would never (or always--no judgment) pull. Not as the hand-me-downs from father to son like lederhosen. (That last one will sting a bit more if I find out that I am indeed part German.)

In fact, I was much more of an overalls kind of guy. I loved overalls; they hid any sort of pudginess and generally relay a sense of, "Oh yes I'm approachable but no, I'm just passing through because I have work to do back home" kind of attitude. A real passport of abnormal clothing choices. I wore them so much in high school that some of the kids started calling me Farmer Brown. And then with the self-realization of political correctness, Farmer Bob. But of course I eventually grew up and had to retire my pair of overalls as no longer pragmatic.  (And with the only gardening I had done in high school was planting one pea plant out of four, it could be argued that they weren't pragmatic far before I was willing to admit it.)

So now I'm moving on to a more respectable Village People caricature. For the first time in my life, I thought, "Well, maybe chaps wouldn't be such a bad idea..."