Truthfully, pictures don't do it justice. For one, I have an unusually small head and it's an unusually round and tall helmet, so in real life there's a full-on mushroom-head effect. It looks enormous. Plus, my helmet ages me down to junior-high Kim. Not sure what that looks like? Here's a picture of me when I was fourteen.
The point is, wearing my bike helmet gives me all the sex appeal of a bow-legged amoeba. Protecting my brains is just barely worth the sacrifice.
Monday:
Today one of my coworkers, who shall remain nameless (hi, Brad), saw me in my helmet and advised me to go back to riding the bus.
Tuesday:
There have been a lot of fires in the area recently, and today it was smoky and muggy outside. It was hard to breathe while biking, and I had on too many coats, so I was feeling pretty disgusting. Naturally, I decided to stop by Goodwill on the way home, because that's clearly a place of magical dreams.
While trying on pants, I caught a little boy peeking at me through the slats in the fitting room door. "Kim," I thought, "This is not a high point for you."
Also today, bicycle helmets.
Wednesday:
My bicycle helmet is Kryptonite to normal guys, but today I did get some whistles and honks on my ride home. So my helmet has no effect on unattractive creep-o's who lack social skills (of which there are many in my hometown). But that makes sense, come to think of it. You don't have to be a knockout to get catcalled by losers. They just have to be at least 80% sure that you're living, female, and too young to get the Early Bird special at Denny's. Once I went outside with unwashed hair, in an oversized old hoodie and baggy jeans, and had a guy make kissy noises at me. Thanks, fellah!
Funny story, though. When I was 18, I was walking home from the dentist after getting my fillings repaired. One side of my mouth was numb, but it was summer, so I stopped at the store to get a cold soda. So, I'm walking along, drinking a coke I can only enjoy with the right side of my face, when a hot guy pulls up in a truck and asks if I want a ride.
I wasn't about to go with him, because 1. I didn't want to get murdered, 2. I had a boyfriend, 3. I was a block from home, and 4. he was probably about thirty. But I was extremely flattered that for once in my life, the creep-o was a hunk.
"No, thanks," I said, smiling with half of my face and trying (and failing) not to dribble coke down my shirt.
This was like the one and only time a hot delivery guy came to my door. I was wearing my old granny bathrobe, slippers with crew socks, and a towel on my head. In other words: I was irresistible.
Thursday:
I've discovered what I'll call a rate-of-change effect. When I'm biking without a helmet, I'm sweaty, bright red, and panting, with messy hair. I know that sounds very, very mildly pornographic, but--well, speaking of pornography, it's like how porn is supposed to be sexy but is always unpleasant instead. The porn dude looks like someone's tubby math teacher, or he looks like Mario Lopez's ugly second cousin, with a banana-shaped schlong and too much baby oil on his chest. The chick wears too much lip liner and fake nails, and has widely-spaced rock-hard breasts and patched-on nipples. And they both have hair in all the wrong places.
I digress.
But the difference between how bad I look while just riding my bike, and how bad I look in my helmet, is like the difference between being out-of-shape and being airlifted out of your apartment by crane on an episode of "The Montel Williams Show." A mountain of difference. So, there are always a few moments after I take off my helmet (shaking my hair for good measure), when the transition or rate-of-change makes me briefly appear much more attractive than I am.
Kind of like if you went to a bar with the crane-airlifted chick. It's all about comparison.
Friday:
When I see cyclists in helmets now, I feel like we're part of a secret club. By myself, I just look really, really bad. But when that flannel-shirted guy, that chick with a ponytail, and I are all wearing our helmets? Maybe it's you who looks bad.
Saturday:
I came out to the living room, freshly showered and fully dressed. Then--don't judge me--said, "Hey, Sean? I think--I think I might be a little too hot right now."
Sean was cooking breakfast. He looked up. "You might be."
"I know I sound full of myself--"
"No, I agree with you. You need to ugly it up a little."
"I might be a fire hazard like this."
"You might actually be. Ugly it up."
"Oh! I know." I ran to the closet and came back wearing my bike helmet. "Eh? Eh?"
"Ohhhh, my. Now you're the opposite. You're a freezing-to-death hazard." He paused. "Starting with the genitals."
That's a really bad way to freeze to death.
The Next Week:
Aside from freezing hazards, I have to say, I think I've finally come to terms with my dorky-ass helmet (not to be confused with my dorky ass-helmet). Partly because something can only be funny-bad for so long before it just turns whiny. And partly because of what another of my coworkers told me when I showed off my helment, my badge of nerdiness: "Don't let anyone give you a hard time about it, because one day it'll save your noodle."
It's almost absurdly touching, in its own small way--and not just because it involves the word "noodle," but also because it's true (although yeah, mostly because of the "noodle"). I hope that he's wrong, of course, in that I will never need my helmet to protect my head. But like the crossing guard with the coke-bottle glasses, high-water pants, and tucked-in tee shirt, my helmet will always be at the ready, a goofy-looking but lovable friend.
Saved by the bell! Except you still have a venereal disease.
click to go back to BRAINS
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