I’ve been riding my bicycle three or four times a week for the last few weeks.

From here, this post could go in several different directions. I could share the reasons behind my effort to pedal my way to fitness over 50. I could share some humorous anecdotes related to my decided lack of athleticism for, oohhh, my whole life, really. I could also tell the story behind how my bicycle, a Giant “Liv” model from 2015, was the only new item I purchased for myself that year – the year I was only buying clothing and household goods secondhand. I could even write up a tourism piece about the amazing growth of cycling in Northwest Arkansas and the birth of a culture here that has never been here before in any significant way.

But instead, I want to talk about the bike I rode when I was nine years old.

My dad was a handy guy with a wrench, having grown up around cars in his dad’s service station in Hot Springs, Arkansas. He also liked turning something old into something new-ish – a trait I inherited from him along with curly hair and a penchant for disco music. In my 6th or 7th year, he presented each of my brothers and I with bicycles he’d found here and there and brought home to fancy-up. Mine was a bright blue metallic two-wheeler with a banana seat and plastic streamers coming out of the handlebars. I was well on my way to becoming Barb in Stranger Things.

That bike was delightful, but I was pretty tall for my age, so when my ninth birthday was looming, my parents took me to Sears to browse the sporting goods department for a new ride. It was decided that I could move up from a single-speed basic kids’ bike to a 27″ 3-speed. Be still my heart! Sears had a couple of 3-speed options on the floor that day – both were Huffy “Free Spirit” models.

The display bikes were identical in almost every way. 27″ wheels with fenders, a rack in the back for the book bag I would have carried to school if I wasn’t bused across town. But one was black, and the other was white. The white one had a tan leather seat and red, white & blue striping and decals (that’s it up there in the featured image!). It was, to my almost-nine-year-old eyes, the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen to that point in my life. Okay, maybe number two behind my Malibu Barbie with real tan lines.

I don’t remember details about the trim package on the black one now – I think it had a tan seat as well, and probably the same patriotic decals, but only had eyes for the white one. But the most important difference to me at the time? The white one cost around $10 more than the black one.

Now, here is where my reminiscing brings up the reality of how I have lived my whole life and I insert a moral to the story.

I have spent decades being the first to make space for others’ comfort. I have put my desires on the back burner to make sure everyone else in the room is happy, fed, entertained, etc… It has manifested in small things like “Where do you want to eat?”, and in larger things, like “Where do you want to spend our vacation/Put the sofa/Buy a house?”I have really been working on this in myself recently, trying to make sure I take time for myself, that I state my needs rather than just hinting and getting angry or being disappointed when people around me don’t read between the lines.

Turns out, people understand words better than feelings! Especially when the feelings are internalized!! Go figure!

But when I was nine, I didn’t know I was making a decision that would be one of a loooooong line of sacrifices I was willing to make to ensure my parents were happy with me and that I wasn’t demanding too much of my loved-ones. So, black it was. Yes, the white one is pretty, but black will be fine.

I was great at coming up with reasons why my second or third choice was good enough even then:

Black wouldn’t show dirt as quickly.

Black was a “cool” color for a bike. My mother had recently started working and my dad often had a new job.

There were three kids to feed and clothe and outfit with bicycles… I didn’t want to be selfish.

It wouldn’t matter what color the bike was, it would ride the same.

And here’s a moment when my parents did the absolutely perfect thing: They bought the white one anyway.

I’ve never had a great poker face, so I’m sure they were very clear on which bike I actually wanted as they watched me looking at bikes that day. I remember my dad very distinctly asking me “Are you sure you really want the black one?” But I held my tiny, eager-to-please ground and insisted I had made my choice. The greatest thing about this story is that I didn’t know until they woke me up on my birthday. I totally assumed I’d get the bike I said was fine. Why wouldn’t I? But instead, I came downstairs for breakfast and found the beautiful, shiny, white Free Spirit waiting for me.

Fast-forward to my adulthood when I have a hard time communicating my needs.

There are a lot of personality tests and surveys and books to read and astrology charts and tarot readings that can tell us a lot of what we already know about ourselves. It feels great to be vindicated though, doesn’t it? Like, “Oh, I’m messy and kind of emotional and really not a morning person unless I have to be. But I’m a Libra, sooo…”. And I’m sure that my Myers-Briggs results (ENFP) and my Enneagram (which I’ve never calculated) and my Gretchen Rubin-designed “tendency” (obliger) will back me up as well.

But when we rely on the tests to provide excuses for the ways we mistreat ourselves, and let others mistreat us, we miss the point. The tests point to tendencies we have, but they also provide pretty clear access to understanding what we need to work on. For me, putting myself first is definitely a piece of me that’s a fixer-upper. There are times when my deference to others is welcome and necessary, but there are a whole lot of other times when putting myself first is not the best optio for me, or anyone else for that matter.

Basically, I have to ask myself, “If I allow my desires to be last in line in this particular situation, will I regret it for months or years, or just for a couple of hours while I’m craving sushi but we end up eating tacos?” Some women will say midlife drives them to speak up for themselves more than they used to, and maybe that’s true for me as well – but I wish I hadn’t waited until this stage. I wish I had fewer “what ifs” on my list.

My parents read me well that day in Sears, but friends, and even relationship partners, are not able to be that tuned in every time (maybe not ever?). It’s up to us to make sure our needs are met – no one else’s. Are you choosing the black bicycle when you really want the white one? Voice what you want. Demand what you need. You’re not hurting anyone but yourself if you’re not.

Optimistically,

— Laurie