Sunday, August 13, 2017

A long December, or, Hot Cowboy quest: FAIL

I’m bitter. So, so bitter.

So as we all know by now, the thing I hate more than ANYTHING – well, in addition to those stupidly invasive morning glories and Japanese knotweed and thorny blackberries and FINE THERE ARE A LOT OF THINGS I HATE – but at least on my bike rides, wind is enemy #1. Taking top place in Miss Tasha’s Hierarchy of Cycling Suckiness, far and away the worst. The worst. Because it’s unrelenting and sneaky and shifting and diabolical. Unlike, say, a hill. Where you see it coming, you know it’ll suck and it might go on forever, but eventually it’ll end. Wind has no such decency. It just gets worse and worse until you’re being blown in to traffic or off the road or crawling along at a snail’s pace until you’re screaming FUCK YOU into the ether and no one hears it because your words are snatched away by that damn wind.

Anyway, where was I?

Before I set out on yesterday morning’s ride, I meticulously and diligently and fanatically and obsessively checked the forecast, paying attention only to the wind. Temps, ech, whatever. But WIND. Speed and direction, of paramount importance! claims (CLAIMS) that there’ll be mild wind from the east and north in the morning, which means headwind then tailwind, and then when I’m headed back, the wind will shift so that it’s from the south, and I get a tailwind on the way back.

I’m skeptical.

As it turns out, I’m skeptical for good fucking reason, because needless to say, this does not happen. Coming back I get a massive headwind from the north and west, and the westerly portion is so bad that I look slightly drunk, being blown hither and yon on the road. Cue aforementioned screaming. Cue rage. Cue bitterness. Of course when I get back I note that I wasn’t imagining the 20 mph winds, as there’s a “weather warning” for Burns, with “forest fire warnings due to dry conditions and gusty winds.” Fuck. It. All.

Oh, what’s that? You thought my bitterness would be directed at the Hot Cowboy fail? Fact is, I knew that was a long shot. I long ago accepted that things just….don’t work out for me. That if there are 2 ways things can go and one of them is the bad way, the bad way is always the one that will happen. Nope, not even garden-variety good luck for me. Then you have the other shitshows, from cancer to brain injury to stupid pointless IVF that did nothing more than suck away all my savings and of course it didn’t work because why the fuck would it? So yeah, a Hot Cowboy meetcute? Nah.

I consider myself a reasonably attractive person, with a sparkly bitter-but-charming personality, too much edukashun (ahem, Wharton), a dry wit, so many eccentric hobbies I could pass them out like cheap party favors, an amazing dog who’s king of everything (guys like dogs, amirite?), a big drafty old house, and a gift for making boozy jams. What’s not to like? In return all I’m asking for is a Hot Cowboy who’ll call me sweetheart and not talk very much. Is that so fucking hard?

Apparently so.

Last night I decided to head to a local bar, Sketchy Pastimes or something like that, which is shocking in and of itself because other than during RAGBRAI, I can’t recall the last time I went to a bar. But when in Rome and all that – and Snacktivist friend Emily had told me this place is practically an institution and that I should check it out. So, off I went.  All that stuff people say about not wanting to go places by themselves? Yeah, I don’t give a fuck.

Now, as my luck would have it, this place is empty on a Saturday night. Apparently there’s a wedding or golf convention or whatever going on and that’s where everyone in town is. #becauseofocourse  Now, the two people who ARE there do appreciate my pictures of rage cows, and the bartenders are lovely and they carry Angry Orchard which is a fine cider if I do say so myself. But still, in what world do you go to a bar on a Saturday night in a small town and there is NO ONE there?

Welcome to TashaWorld.

I apparently watched Urban Cowboy a few too many times as an impressionable youth, as in that movie there are Hot Cowboys raining down like confetti in every scene. LIES. ALL LIES. Clearly what I need are some wingwomen, to which I say, RAGBRAI Morgan, where are you??

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