Scott emailed me ("shemailed" me, actually, according to his accompanying message. cla$$y!) some recent pictures of my almost-bike. They're tough to look at.
See, back in January, the thought of a new bike was but a delightful little daydream. When it came time to do an actual fitting, reality crept closer, yet it still maintained enough distance that it was easy to put out of my mind. Some time in late march, Sacha and I collaborated on some paint scheme ideas (read as: I mostly contributed the statement "I like colors!" and he translated that into an actual plan) which was a big step towards making me all jittery all the time for that euphoric new bike moment. When I handed over a team jersey for specific color matching, it pushed me closer to the edge of crippling-impatience-bordering-on-some-kind-of-a-disorder.
And now, seeing this future frame of mine standing in line for the final stage of manufacturing... Well, it's almost too much to take. It reminds me of when I was a kid and it was, like, 4 days before Christmas, and all I could do was wish for a time machine or a head injury - the time machine of the trauma world - to just skip all the bullshit until it was gift opening time. Right now I'm at work, and then I have to go home, and then make and eat dinner, and vacuum my house, and probably pet my damn dogs, and do a ton of other lame crap, and then do the same basic song and dance tomorrow, over and over again, and all I really want is to wake up with a sparkling new frame on a bike stand in front of me next to a pile of hot'n'ready components, with a nurse standing by saying something like "what a remarkable and handsome recovery you've just had!" while offering to let me keep her stethoscope because damn I'd really like to have one of those.
I mean, that's not too much to ask, is it? I didn't think so. But alas, I am a regular human being with regular amounts of time machine access (none), and all of the regular reflexes that "help" me unconsciously avoid serious concussions as I go about my day-to-day, so I guess I'll just have to wait it out.
The Tiniest Sprinter
PS: I checked, but I don't think "XXX-treme New Bike Impatience" is in the DSM-IV. Feels like it ought to be.
PPS: Since them Vanilla boys get to tell you what they're listening too, I totally want to too! Azealia Banks, again and again and again. Pretty much not-safe-for-anywhere, so beware if you're around babies or sensitives or whatever.