“Good thing you were wearing your helmet,” one cyclist said. The one wearing a beret and had traveled from San Jose.

Ironically, earlier I had suggested not wearing a helmet. Which would be a rare moment for me. It’s even rarer than not having bike lights at night.

The following are the times that I didn’t wear a helmet:

That is it. I am the most paranoid person I know. I am the most cautious regular cyclist. Considering how accident prone I can be. I pause at stop signs while other cyclists ride around me. I avoid going down 17th street because I want to avoid all the snaking muni rails. I drive at night because I don’t want to ride at night. I go slow around cars, especially when they double park. I always take the lane and try to avoid lane splitting if ever possible.

I would like to say that my helmet saved me when I fell and landed hard on my right side of my head. But some people think differently. Would I have ridden safer (like football players without helmets) if I wasn’t wearing one? Would I have avoided in between the muni tracks if I wasn’t wearing one? I don’t know.

That night, I didn’t notice any damage to my helmet until the following morning. The lower right side was cracked in multiple places like a jagged knife running upward through the styrofoam. What is certain is that I didn’t get any surface scrapes on my head unlike my forearm (which is now fully purple and hating handshakes). Did it compress? I don’t know. At the very least, I am sad for my fancy Giro black bike racing helmet.

The first thing I did was get up and retrieve the rolling water bottle that fell off my bike. I had to get my things. I had to get my things.

Then I felt this bright dizzy feeling overcome me. I knew that I hit my head and my right forearm and hip were in pain. I tried to remember what I had happened but I couldn’t. Someone was saying in front of me, “I have gotten caught like that. Are you ok?”

I took deep breaths and said, “Yes…I think so.”

Another cyclist stopped and said, “That was quite a wipeout. What day is it?”

I reached back in my memory remembering that I had checked the date indicator on my computer several hours before. “April 5,” I said.

“What time is it?”

I reached for my phone, he interrupted, “Don’t check your watch.”

“Um…9 pm.” (And it was actually 9 pm.)

“Do you recognize these two guys? Do you trust them?”

I gestured toward the one who was wearing a brown beret, “I recognize him. San Jose. But I don’t know him. Should I trust them?”

“Are you with anybody?”

“Yeah, but he was way in front…leading everyone. He was the one wearing the blue helmet. I think that I am going to walk.”

With that, I started walking and called Chris, noting his latest text message where r u? “I think that I got caught in the muni rails. I don’t feel good.”

“Walk over to Illinois and 24th. I am directing traffic.”

I found him as he directed cyclists to turn left, waving his arms left. “I feel weird like a whole day has passed. I don’t remember the moments before and after I fell. I don’t know if my bike is ok.”

Then suddenly I remembered how the group was moving fast and I thought that I should speed up. After all, I can ride fast. A car was blocking the way. I hated going near the muni rails, but I saw other cyclists ride smoothly through the middle and it’s not the first time I crossed the tracks. I’ll do it. Then I fell.

I only choose not to have time for you. That time is a choice as WSJ says.

It might be somewhat pompous to say that, but I bristle when someone tells me that they’re too busy. Too busy to have lunch. Too busy to talk for a moment. Too busy to attend, to participate in an activity, to change jobs, to consider their energies.

When I entered college, I started measuring the amount of time spent on things I hated doing. For example, washing dishes. It seemed to take an amount of effort to put my hands under the water, add soap, scrub, rinse and dry. Then I realized the amount of time I spent on doing my small amount of dishes was less than 10 minutes. Sometimes 5 minutes.

Growing up, my mom enacted a rule that we would practice piano for at least 30 minutes a day. So my sister and I used the oven timer, setting it for 30 minutes. I remember pulling out my books, playing through them. But really counting the minutes until I could retire to do other things. My mom could hear the silence and would stomp out, trying to figure out what was going on. Then I would continue, whether playing actual notes or pieces. But at some point, when the timer beeped, I would run out and stop the timer and declare that I was done.

So busy? I never think that I am. I know that I waste a lot of time browsing the Internet—whether it’s out of boredom, soothing a sad part of me, and fulfilling a thirst of knowledge. I know that I neglect a lot usual duties—cleaning up my room, doing my taxes, checking my bills thoroughly, and generally organizing my life. But the thing is…it’s not important to me.

People say that I spend an inordinate time planning. Planning for myself and others. Events, activities, anything to keep me away from mundane tasks. I spend a lot of time reading movie and tv reviews. I also spend a lot of time writing (not always writing my ice cream travel guide for that fact). But I pride myself that I am completely self-aware of these things. Yes, there’s sometimes guilt that comes with it. I know that I can be more diligent and that I can be more reliable. Whatever the case, my own principles of life (e.g. I always return emails, texts and calls to people that I deem important within 24 hours.) help me filter through the noise.

Am I busy? Never. Honestly, there are only two things that keep me from doing things:
1. I don’t care
2. I am afraid

But I am never too busy otherwise.

“We’ll grow old together,” she wrote. “And complain about our husbands.”

I remember feeling touched and hopeful that life was going to be different. A friend for life.

Then in the decade, through words exchanged, cars rides given, moves across the country, meals shared, failed attempts, carried hopes, bikes, gifts, houses purchased, places rented…distance grew despite living in the same city. I moved in my circle and she in hers.

Then today, I smiled faintly as digital photos of happiness scroll across my screen. It’s better this way, I think. No words exchanged, plausible deniability expected.

Yesterday, I imagined my friend saying the words that he had difficulty saying. How as he said them, they fluttered across the country over the phone and break into a burning clarity that she didn’t want to hear.

I remember how I said the same exact words once. And how saying them was forcing my body to do something out of its comfort zone. When the body only wants to be wrapped with a down blanket, lying on its side. Hoping for the next moment of relief.

I have learned that there’s no right. There’s no wrong. Whether something is said with compassion or anger, it is said. And I hope that the words were carefully chosen.

As I drove along 16th street, I spotted it. A bright, loud party going on in an alleyway, nestled between warehouses in Potrero Flats. I dodged around a taxi in the process of loading and swung into the opposite lane almost into incoming traffic.

I found a parking spot around the corner. Once parked, I hesitated. Loud music? Flashy lights? Dressed up people? High heels, shiny sport jackets, open bar, boring dull topics?

I wasn’t quite sure. I walked around the corner unable to get in touch with Chris…who somehow got inside. Uniformed unsmiling police officers stood guard at the main entrance and the back.

Finally, I got a call right as I was going to bounce the joint. “Sorry, I was in the bathroom!”

“Really?” I said. “The men’s bathroom has a line.”

“It’s all guys here,” he replied. It was…quite a sausage fest.

I walked to the fence and he convinced me that yes I did want Asian tacos and ice cream sandwiches. As he was buried within the food trucks and carts, a girl dressed up in a medium gray cloak and leggings walked by and started taking photos with her phone. Then she asked me, “What’s going on?”

“I think it’s a celebration for the launch of Oouya,” I said. “I am not sure if I really want to go.”

Her curiosity was infectious and Chris immediately offered to get us both in. At the door, Chris said that he already talked to the guys and nobody blinked an eye. I embarrassingly slid through the check-in as bracelet was slipped onto my skinny wrist.

We were in.

Tonight, I went to a dessert tasting. Quite appropriate for my love (any food with sugar!).

Yet after a few hours surrounded by wine tasting (and pairing), talk of Fifty Shades of Grey, shopping, makeup techniques, I wondered where I had fallen. Was this a sign of genders? Was this a sign of extroversion?

This time though, I didn’t force my hand into intense topics of conversation as I had done once with a group of strangers last month. No what does food really mean for everyone. No why does owning a house have so much significance in our society. No how does it really feel like to work in a restaurant like this.

I fidgeted in my seat, hoping nobody would notice. But then I realized, perhaps this is what it is that not all dessert conversation can be perfect.

Life is short.

I used to believe that trying new things is the point of life. After all, if we don’t keep trying, how will we know what we like or don’t like? How will we discover the undiscovered parts of ourselves?

Before, I never understood how people went to their regular restaurant for the same thing. How did people come into the same restaurant and look at Sally and ask, “I’ll get the usual.” Then Sally would say, “Great!” and she would wink, smile, and set the plate down the way people want it. Perhaps with the same extra sauce. Then a drink made with the same amount of ice. Just one, no more than that.

I rarely went to the same place more than twice a year (unless demanded by my peers). Every day, it was something new. Something different.

Yet, after disappointments and missed expectations, I have the usual. For restaurants, to start. I am afraid of trying the new hipster restaurants on Valencia because I would scan the menu in disappointment not being able to find a single item that I really want and end up with something that seemed ok. But then I’ll have a bite and know that I’ll dislike it. So then should I send it back unsure if it’s really for me?

So instead, I say…nah, let’s go the usual. Let’s have the rotisserie chicken in the way I like it. With yuca fries and vegetales saltados. I would eat it in the restaurant with my fingers and I would lick each finger one by one. That is my usual.

I know that I am in the minority. And that whatever I say, it will come off childish.

This is actually what I wanted to say.

People have told me:

In essence, it is the one thing that I inherently rebel against and have an inner struggle every day: be like everyone else to be happier.

Is it hard to be true to yourself?