Wouldn’t you know, that the day my new bicycle finally arrives, after weeks of delay and miscommunications, after years of fear regarding the Boston city streets, after studying maps and sizing helmets and coming to terms with my mortality, I leave my apartment to pick up said bicycle — and halfway there a man cuts in front of me on the sidewalk, walking his bike.

At first I just think he just happens to have the body type of a sea anemone, with a tuft of strange hair emerging from a head slightly less wide than his head, and an oceanic wobble wobble to his walk. But then I realize he is wearing a neck brace. When he looks back to check for cars, his eyes wander in different directions.

And we walk like this, with him maintaining position a block or so in front of me, escorting his bicycle — wobble wobble wobble — nearly the entire way to Porter Square.

I somehow found myself squeezed into a bike shop in Providence around midnight, dolled up in black tights and a short grey skirt, hair twisted and pinned back with bobby pins. I was surrounded by the kind of people I might be today, had I made a few different choices a few years ago. Unshowered, with self-made haircuts. Bicycles piled outside, tattoos along their calves, food stamps in their pockets, recipes for vegan french toast. They all smiled and introduced themselves to people they didn’t know (myself) as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Five minutes earlier I’d debated just going to bed, slipping away somehow, unnoticed.

Ten minutes earlier I’d been in the backseat of a car with the windows rolled down, the icy December wind tearing through my little grey skirt and thin black tights.

Twenty minutes earlier I’d been sitting on the floor of a taqueria directly in front of five large speakers as some large bearded guy named Chip wailed on his guitar. Ever the square adopted friend in social situations, I wondered if it was rude to plug my ears if they began to bleed. The whole floor was vibrating with sound. Depending on the chord played, the sensation isolated in my calves, thighs, spine, or heart, which would stop beating for a few seconds to resume with a heavy thud. This struck me as kind of awesome.

And much, much earlier that day, we’d been at the bike shop, to, you know, look at bikes. We’d ridden a few around the block, the wind in our hair. I hadn’t been on a bicycle in years. It felt like driving a car for the first time: that same thrill of just growing up. Growing up has been mostly boring for the past few years: it’s made me miss high school, to be honest, just for the drama.

“That’s my stalker!” my pretty friend said. “The lead singer! Man, it’s weird to see him sing. I just know him as my stalker, you know?”

Oh, by the way, a band was playing. In the bike shop. At midnight. Presumably they had started much earlier, because they only played one more song before they disassembled and two DJs took over. My pretty friend disappeared into the crowd, and I was left surrounded by strangers.