Stroller Ride Quotes

What is that?” “What?” I look down at the gift in my hand. “Did you bring an Aston Martin Stroller?” “He’s a Vor,” I shrug. “He should be riding in style.

Likewise—now don’t laugh—cars and trucks should view the bike lanes as if they are sacrosanct. A driver would never think of riding up on a sidewalk. Most drivers, anyway. Hell, there are strollers and little old ladies up there! It would be unthinkable, except in action movies. A driver would get a serious fine or maybe even get locked up. Everyone around would wonder who that asshole was. Well, bike lanes should be treated the same way. You wouldn’t park your car or pull over for a stop on the sidewalk, would you? Well then, don’t park in the bike lanes either—that forces cyclists into traffic where poor little meat puppets don’t stand a chance.

Marriages are nesting dolls, too. We carry each iteration: the marriage we had before the children, the marriage of love letters and late nights at dive bars and train rides through France; the marriage we had after the children, the marriage of tenderness but transactional communication—who’s doing what, and when, and how—and early mornings and stroller walks and crayon on the walls and sunscreen that always needs to be reapplied; the marriage we had toward the end before we knew there was an end, the marriage of the silent treatment and couch sleeping and the occasional update email. Somewhere at the center is the tiniest doll. Love. The love that started everything. It’s still there, but we’d have to open and open and open ourselves—our together selves—to find it. I can’t bear to think of it in there somewhere, the love. Like the perfect pit of some otherwise rotten fruit.

On Saturday morning, he'd chosen his favorite place in Taipei to show me, Chung-shan Park. We wandered on a beautiful walking path around a lake with spraying fountains, surrounded by trees, and under the shadow of Taipei's iconic skyscraper, which was called Taipei 101. It was a great place for people-watching, with young couples on romantic walks, parents pushing babies in strollers, older people practicing tai chi, kids riding bikes, and nature lovers snapping photos of flowers. Best of all were the baobing- delicious shaved ices with a super-thin texture and condensed milk that added an extra sweet flavor. I topped my baobing with mango chunks, while Uncle Masa chose sweet potato chunks on his, an addition I never imagined could be delicious until I sampled his for myself.

An older woman wearing breeches and riding boots pushed a stroller out of a driveway and into the street. I stopped to let her cross. She smiled, thanking me. I smiled, saying take your time. A tiny hand reached from the stroller and waved at the sky.

Marriages are nesting dolls too. We carry each iteration. The marriage we had before the children. The marriage of love letters and late nights at dive bars and train rides through France. The marriage we had after the children. The marriage of tenderness but transactional communication. Who’s doing what and when and how. And early mornings and stroller walks and crayon on the walls and sunscreen that always needs to be reapplied. The marriage we had towards the end, before we knew there was an end. The marriage of the silent treatment and couch sleeping and the occasional update email. Somewhere at the centre is the tiniest doll. Love. The love that started everything. It’s still there. But we’d have to open and open and open ourselves, our together selves, to find it. I can’t bear to think of it in there somewhere, the love. Like the perfect pit of some otherwise rotten fruit.