Maybe you motorcyclists (heterosexual males who ride motorcycles) are looking for love in all the wrong places.
Maybe what you should do is find yourself a woman who rides a motorcycle.
I love that her name is the same spelled forward or backward; this palindrome suggests that despite the softness of her sound, Anna is indestructible, a solid pillar of a person. We spent the entire seven-hour ride complaining about our marriages.
Our husbands were not sleeping with us; their salaries were paltry; they left sinks full of dishes and dishes full of scrap. "You couldn't pay me to sleep with a woman," my friend said, and I nodded in agreement.
Of course, our dream-date is a long ride on a twisty road with lunch someplace where they bake their own bread and the hostess calls the guy making sandwiches “dad.” Bonus: we show up with our tanks already full. Pull off a stunt like that and we’ll probably throw ourselves at you.
In the twisted hierarchy of feminine badasses, we’re sort of up there. (*= a completely arbitrary statistic for which I claim full artistic license and hereby disavow any claim, real or otherwise, regarding actual health benefits).Would you believe we found an actual woman who rides motorcycles to write this one? I got a chuckle from last week’s "Ten Reasons Why You Shouldn’t Date a Motorcyclist." But something in the satire made me feel... First of all, the author uses the word “motorcyclist” to exclusively define the heterosexual male rider, so right there, you know he’s either ancient or been hiding under a rock. Secondly, the poor guy must be so beat down by the unrealistic expectations of non-riding females, he’s actually trying to talk them out of dating him (and you, too, if you’re a heterosexual male who rides a motorcycle). Then, he’s outing his rare disorder of the nasal mucosa, which apparently, a lot of heterosexual males who ride motorcycles suffer from.I don’t really know what he’s talking about, being a girl and all; we don’t get “boogers.” Anyway, the article got me thinking.My woman has gleaming black hair, a perfect nose, a shapely mouth bracketed by two deep dimples.Her name is Anna, not 's all soft and sleepy—a name with wind in it, a name that brings to mind treetops and oceans.I clutched the stem of my oh-so-tame wineglass and watched a couple kissing in the corner—I felt totally out of place. On my right hand, my engagement ring, a white moonstone set in silver, seemed to throb, and so I slid my hand into my pocket. Given my hetero history, how is it that I am now—married and with two children—in love with a woman?