Whatever

Hola'tllamoporlodeSPORTLIFE.

He's probably somewhere between twenty-five and forty, and probably isn't entirely sober. He's calling from a cell phone because he probably doesn't want anyone - someone specific - knowing that he's calling. The first time the guy introduced himself he spoke so quickly that it took me a moment to realize he was calling about the ad that I'd placed in SPORT LIFE magazine. Not that there was much room for making mistakes. I thought I'd been pretty clear about what I was looking for - women with whom I could ride road bikes here in Madrid. Busco chicas aficionadas de carretera.

Guy Number One calls from Huesca. He calls at 11.30AM and speaks so quickly that, at first, I'm not even entirely sure that he's speaking Spanish. It takes a minute to extricate exactly WHY he's calling - he's not a female, he doesn't live in Madrid and confesses readily that he doesn't even own a bike. All right, then, I say, as the other shoe slowly drops, why exactly ARE you calling if you're lacking those three things?

Para lo que surja, he says. For whatever comes up.

Now, we're all adults here. We all know that "whatever" does NOT mean "whatever", anymore than "Want to come up for a cup of coffee?" at 2AM does not involve coffee whatsoever. We know that any man that calls from a cellphone, and not from a line with easily traceable numbers, is, as Chris Rock so memorably put it, only as faithful as his options.

I am not an option.

I am flattered....and slightly insulted. I want to believe that I'm going to meet someone someday, but I'd rather it not be in such a tawdry, tasteless manner. I want to believe that there's more that's attractive about me than the idea that I can help someone get away with something.

I am not an option. I am a rider.