All About My Head

Unfortunately, they did not carry the Bratz line of

helmets at the motorcycle dealership.

This past weekend was Memorial Day weekend, and it is sure to be memorable for me—but whether it is memorable in a good or bad way remains to be seen. After much hemming and hawing and general refusal to commit, this weekend I purchased a dragon red 2007 Vespa LX 150.

I need to explain something about myself. I suffer from an extreme medical condition known as Fear Of Looking Like A Complete Idiot (FOLLACI). I admit said suffering with the worry that those who know me will be surprised at this, given my apparent willingness to look like a complete idiot all of the time. This is just further proof of the severity of my FOLLACI.

Sitting there in the Vespa dealership (no, not one of those dealerships—a regular scooter, motorcycle, dirt bike, what have you kind of a place), I was expecting to be overcome by buyer’s remorse, another of my many maladies. Instead, I was hit hard by a FOLLACI attack, i.e., a nearly disabling worry that I would look like a total moron and/or poser whilst riding my new purchase and was therefore unworthy of it. Fortunately, while I was sitting there waiting for the paperwork, a wonderful woman who has a twenty-year/hundred pound advantage on me went and sat on my new Vespa and pretended to drive it while her similarly aged/shaped/upper-middle-classed husband shopped for a Harley. This woman did not look ridiculous or moronic atop the Vespa—she looked great and confident! (can’t say the same for hubby and the Harley, I’m afraid). Pointing to me from across the showroom, a salesman told her, “She just bought it.” The woman looked at me and smiled big and said, “Oh! You will look so cute riding it."

Like most short and sweet girls, I am not overly fond of the term “cute” as applied to myself. But this time it seriously made my day.

I do not have possession of the Vespa yet as delivery is pending. I do, however, have possession of new riding gloves and a helmet. The helmet has been another source of FOLLACI.

Naturally, I wanted one of those tiny helmets—the kind that are only slightly bigger than a Yamika and look fabulous when paired with sunglasses so gigantic that Nicole Richie doubtlessly has five pairs. The twelve-year-old, tattooed motorcycle expert that was assigned to help me pick out my gear sorely disapproved of such a helmet, though. Citing the value of my head and the faculties located therein, he talked me into getting a ¾-sized helmet that has a similar retro look, although he was sure to point out that the magnificent snap-on visor piece in front was for looks only and offered no use or protection.

I have spent more time than I care to admit with the glossy black helmet in front of the mirror. Unfortunately, it only looks good when I am holding it under my arm, as if I won the Heisman. Once it is on my head, I am instantly transformed into the Rick Moranis character from Spaceballs. (and if you thought “who’s Rick Moranis?,” you don’t watch enough eighties films; and if you immediately thought, “duh, Dark Helmet,” then you watch far too many). Enter FOLLACI. I can tell I am going to have to repeat the mantra of “you will look so cute riding it!” five million times daily whilst wearing the bulbous helmet in order to get over it.

Better yet, I can remember that the point of this whole Vespa experiment is to get over being cute or being perfect and to worry only about being me and taking time to enjoy life.