I Didn't Do It

Some time ago, Ben introduced Bob to "riding our bikes to the Big Park." The Big Park is about a 5-minute walk from our house, but sits on a rather busy intersection. Bob, of course, thought this was very cool.

One weekend shortly thereafter, Bob suggested riding bikes to the Big Park. Ben was working. I don't have a bike. Ben has two (a trail bike and a BMX bike). The trail bike requires special footwear because it has special pedals. The BMX bike, despite that endlessly-turning front wheel that freaks me out, seemed like my best bet.

I'm short. So is Ben. But he's still got a good 10 inches on me. Suffice to say by the time we got home from the Big Park, my ass was screaming for a cushion and I felt not unlike I did that time I fell on the monkey bars and straddled one with serious force.

So the next time Bob suggested we ride to the Big Park when Ben was gone, I decided to lower the seat on the bike to prevent losing my virginity all over again. After a lot of huffing and puffing, I got the bolt loosened, lowered the seat, tightened up the bolt, and that was that.

So tonight, Ben's working on a story for the paper about BMX racing. As you may have guessed, he raced as a kid (up to high school, I think) and part of his story involves his return to the track. I reminded him this morning that, unless he felt like eating his own knees, he'd need to adjust the seat.

He just emailed me that the bolt that holds the seat clamp mysteriously snapped in half and now he has to go find a new seat clamp.

I DIDN'T DO IT, dammit.

I'm not a smart girl. I have a liberal arts degree. I didn't work in a bike shop in high school. I also don't know dick about bikes other than the 10 speed I had as a kid was super cool until I learned to drive a car.

All the same, I think I have the necessary gray matter required to unscrew and re-screw a bolt. And it couldn't have snapped while I was riding the damn thing, because I'm sure I would have noticed if the seat had suddenly dropped an inch (okay, half an inch).

And since Ben outweighs me by a good 80 pounds, I seriously doubt my fat ass caused the bolt to give.

So why do I feel guilty? And why am I taking such offense to his statement in the email that "in the future, maybe talk to me before you adjust something?" (Aside from the obvious--that statement makes me sound like some stupid girl who broke daddy's tools or something.)

That bike was in perfect working order when I finished with it, and I refuse to accept any responsibility for any defects that may now be present.

But in the interest of maintaining marital harmony, I'll probably just apologize and then say, "now we're even for all those clothes of mine that mysteriously shrunk to Barbie proportions when you did laundry..."