Something about the teeter-tottery out-of-controlledness of balancing on two wheels scares the bejesus out of me.
When I was 29, I went to Block Island with friends.
We rented bikes, and I felt paralyzing anxiety.
My pediatrician bestie had to talk me down as if she were dealing with a 4-year-old facing a shot.
Fast-forward to last month.
I was determined not to be the scared girl ever again, so I finally called in the pros.
I needed a plan.
Where should I put my hands on the bars?
Were my knees pointing in the right direction?
Nate kept saying, “Relax!
It’s a beautiful day!”
I hadn’t noticed.
“I feel out of control!”
I realized that when I stopped trying to control the situation, it actually came together!
I was a nervous kid and prone to panic attacks as a teenager.
I’ve learned to manage my anxiety, but letting go in the water was the final phobia frontier.
While on vacation in Belize last year, I realized how debilitating my fear was.
“Jump in!”
Instead, I shuffled over to the ladder, where I could safely descend into the shallower water nearby.
It was time to dive in, literally and figuratively.
So I made a date for lessons with a triathlon swim coach in New York City, Sarah Littlefield.
We started with blowing bubbles, face in the water.
Sarah was patient and persistent; within five minutes, I’d dunked without holding my nose.
What was so scary?
I sprang back to the surface with a grin on my face, surprised.
Suddenly it occurred to me how much fun I was having.
When I relaxed and found a rhythm, swimming became soothing, even healing.
Floating was last on the agenda.
Did I disappear as Alex did into the deep sea?
But I did dunk under.
Exhaling, I let the tide carry me along.
When I did, I ran over curbs and tried to park after moving the gear shift to neutral.
Was it too much to ask to be able to drive to Target on my own?
I signed up for driving lessons.
After four weeks of lessons, I’m expanding my perimeter with caution.
But I know that one day, I’ll be able to step boldly on the gas.
After all, I’m driven.
Laura Kalehoff
Like many otherwise competent New Yorkers, I can’t cook.
To learn enough to be able to prepare a romantic dinner for my beau.
The course was surprisingly untraumatic, even enjoyable.
How much more domestic could I get?
(“Is there a difference between baking powder and baking soda?!")
A delicious mealas in an “I’d-pay-New-York-City-restaurant-prices-for-this” delicious meal.
Even better, everything tasted homemade.
(Don’t let anyone tell you that cooking is easy.)
I might even saute chicken, although the sight of raw poultry leaves me squeamish.
What I won’t do: Cook all those things together.
Then again, who says I have to?
If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.
My stomach dropped, roller-coaster-style.
“We did the sixes today,” Louisa said, cheerily.
“Test me.”
“Six times seven.”
I could dish it out, after all.
Six times seven equals 42?”
The truth is, I had no idea.
I never actually mastered my times tables.
Determined to break the cycle, I hit the flash cards along with Louisa.
You’ll use these facts for the rest of your life!
Our tutorials always ended in tears.)
I saved my nemesis, the nines, for last.
It was exhilarating to rattle off numbers with the same fluency I have for spelling.
Be fruitful and multiply?
Elisabeth Egan
Photo Credit: Riccardo Tinelli
