During the two weeks between yesterday and the day Michael put it up for sale, we were both in denial about having to sell it. After all, Michael only had the bike for under a year--I think I wrote an entry about the day he bought it. It truly was something to have two motorcycles under one roof; we'd go for rides together, Michael on Kermit, me on my Bumble Bee. We'd take the long roads home and flick off assholes simultaneously. We would race each other on some twisty roads, and Michael would always win, because he's a far better rider than I and Kermit was a much faster bike. Obviously, selling Kermit was a tough decision Michael made. I cried as Kermit rode away.
I'll tell you why Michael sold Kermit. He sold Kermit for me. Now, he would tell you that's not true--that he sold Kermit because it made sense, and it was a logical decision. He would say that we want to buy a home soon, and the best way to do that is prioritize needs and wants and expenses. He would say that a day will come when he will buy another bike, and then it will be extra-special because he will have a two-car garage to park it in. Michael will say all of these things because Michael is one extraordinary man. But I assure you: he sold that bike because of me. Thanks to some of my income/debt problems, Michael has to help me out a lot. Sure, I know that's what couples do--make sacrifices for one another. And I would make the same sacrifice a thousand times over for Michael. It still hurts to know that I led to the departure of Kermit. Michael loved Kermit. He put a lot of work into Kermit, and while we think Kermit went to a good home, it just isn't the same as knowing Kermit is snug in our own, small garage.
And it's true--he did sell Kermit because one day in the near future, we would like to own something, and call it ours, and paint or knock down walls, or landscape or build a new deck or simply sit in the filthy squalor of OWNERSHIP. We can only do that if we buckle down, liquidate assets, prioritize needs, filter out unnecessary luxuries.
Kermit and my Bumble Bee are two of those luxuries, and they have and will fall victim to the consequences of Michael and I BEING MATURE. It's scary, growing up. It's scary realizing how important a home has become versus the newest after-market motorcycle parts or a three hour facial at a good salon. And it will also be worth it to see the results of these mature decisions.
As the buyer of Kermit rode away, I couldn't help but think about how much fun Michael and I have riding together. Had I known that last Friday was the last day we would take a ride, I would have savored it that much more. I would've demanded a longer route with more curves and quieter roads. I would have taken a photograph of the two of us and our two beautiful bikes. I would have crystallized the memory of Michael's big, handsome frame on his bike, twisting through a curly-que road with me some safe distance behind. But that opportunity is gone, now. We stood in the driveway and sighed, and as we sighed in the hot, hot heat, a thought occurred to me.
Whether we be on two wheels or on four, whether we walk or run, whether we rent or own, or have children or not--whether we squirm in middle-class poverty or breathe openly in comfort, whether we continue our educations or move to Michigan or re-settle in Katmandu, I know this--we are together. And while that does not lessen the sting of Kermit's departure, it nurtures the soul. After all, that's what Michael and I are--soulmates. We should live our lives as nothing less.
See 'ya around, Kermit. We're keeping our eyes peeled for you.
