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The past few days, I've been feeling like a smack addict with only visitation rights to her children.
Maybe that's a slight exaggeration.
But with the warmer weather, people talking about the warmer weather, seeing more people on bikes, and velospace...bike shops aren't just therapy - more like methadone clinics. I pedal there, shuffle in, get my fix in the form of bike banter or just hanging out, then pedal home to wait for the next bout of cravings.
I'm beginning to think maybe smack withdrawals would be easier to handle than this anticipation concerning my new baby. It's gotten me doing ridiculous things that, in another life, I would have just not considered doing. Case in point:

I decided that the easiest way to get two deep Vs and a pair of tires to IBC would be to just throw them over one shoulder [I did strap my bag on too, just prematurely took the picture]. Never mind that I could have just taken the T; I figured why not, and once I was out the door with my bike, there's never any turning back.
It worked out well. No crashes, despite the fact that I decided it would be a good idea to go as fast as possible to every single location I hit up yesterday. I blame that decision on this addiction, fueled by my own measure of crazy. And, you know, these darling hubs that were waiting for me:

Yeah I couldn't afford Phils, and to be honest, these are going to outlast my knees equally as well. Besides, they're pretty. And anything with two lockrings on either end will get my attention, stat.
I ended up ogling more pretty things at both Cambridge Bikes and Boston Bikes later where chips and stories of getting people arrested were provided. I even got to touch my very first EAI cog. And while I tried to act pretty nonchalant about the whole thing that nearly black 18-toothed sprocket got me fantasizing. I actually saw it - for 2 whole seconds before the fantasy was interrupted by Dan informing me of its price - pressed against that my Miche hub, cradled by a lockring, and spinning like a good Motown record on a vintage turntable.
The sane part of me made me hand it back, because otherwise I'll be staring at it lovingly until I fail my finals. Still...this addiction really isn't going anywhere, anytime soon [IBC and CB - I can't be back soon enough!].

candy coated

I have a friend who is the quintessential dude.
Not "dude" as in Big-Lebowski-esque dude, but the frat boy kind that hits the gym twice a day and eats protein bars everyday [which even he agrees taste absolutely disgusting]. He openly admits to feeling weird when he doesn't have at least two beers in both hands, and has a very defined concept of what girls should look like.
Given the fact that I'm no delicate flower in heels and short skirts, in my friend's eyes, I conveniently [and fortunately] fall into that gray area between "guy friends" and "girls I'd hit." Probably closer to the "guy friends" though.
Still, I've noticed that he's the only one out of my group of we-survived-studying-together-for-all-of-1L-year friends [who are all male] to actually still treat me like a girl. Just when I was starting to think I'd achieved "guy friend" status.

But despite the sometimes unasked for and unnecessary advice he might give ["if you want to impress a guy, let him watch the game and bring beer"], it's still sort of nice that someone's picking up on the fact that I'm not a total dude [yet]. I was starting to think that that was limited to bike mechanics and polo friends.
It sometimes results in awkwardness though. Like when a bike mechanic/friend excuses his language before swearing. True, people might not be fully aware that I swear like a sailor but I end up at a loss for words. It makes me start to think that maybe people think I am a delicate flower, not the tank dropping f-bombs.

That's exactly what happened when I picked up some new tires [Halo Twin Rail ones] yesterday at Boston Bicycle. Dan excused his language before he used the word "fuck." As usual, I sort of just blinked and spluttered. Awkward. Still, that didn't keep me from unashamedly dancing around my apartment in happiness and excitement after fitting the aforementioned tires to my pink rim. It's so cute. In all its candy-coated glory.
Maybe I'm starting to accept this whole "being a girl" thing more.