Nobody is breaking his vows for my cellulite.
Frankly, that's fine with me. There are lines I won't cross, and that's one of them.
Another one is the third piece of chocolate cake. If I'm on my fourth, I know I'm in trouble.
Also my fifth.
OK, maybe I'd cross the chocolate-cake line, but I never cheat on my taxes.
The IRS lacks a sense of humor.
Also, jail time.
Anyway, to return to the story, Franca and I were cycling when we approached the spot where the trail ends at a sharp curve, a traffic light, and the intersection of Route 202, Route 252, and certain death.
This intersection always makes me nervous, and the last time we came to this traffic light, Franca fell off her bike and skinned her knee. So as we approached, I called out to her: "Careful, honey!"
She turned around to ask, "What did you say?"
And in that moment, she crossed into the intersection, crashed her bike, and fell exactly where she had fallen before, skinning the same knee. Not only that, but I crashed into her, falling over and skinning my elbow where I had skinned it before, too.
If you think it's easy to injure yourself in the exact same place twice in a row, you're wrong.
It's a skill that few people possess, namely only the two of us.
In any event, Franca and I were lying in a crumpled mess in the intersection, our limbs bloodied and our bicycles bent. Traffic stopped, only because Franca is so hot.
I'm not just saying this because she's my best friend.
She is super-hot, and anybody who bicycles will tell you that traffic will not stop for a cyclist even if he is lying dead in the street.
You need to be lying naked in the street.
We picked ourselves up and righted the bikes. My bike was OK, but Franca's was a mess. We got our hands filthy trying to get her chain back on the spiky thing, which has a name I don't care to learn.
We succeeded, but then we couldn't get the spiky thing back under the shiny thing, and I would bother to explain the problem but we all have better things to do.
Luckily, two nice men came over and asked us if we needed help. I couldn't say yes fast enough, even though they were totally married and I was rapidly concluding that falling off your bicycle isn't the way to meet single men.
And while the guys are fixing Franca's bike, lo and behold, who is racing down the trail but the Knight on the White Bicycle, who fixed my flat last time. I said to our two guys, "That's the guy who helped us last week," and one of the men laughed, thinking I was kidding.
I watched my White Knight pedal away. I didn't chase after him or otherwise embarrass myself.
Then the other man asked me, "Hey, aren't you that author Lisa Scottoline?"
To which I answered: "No, absolutely not. Nobody as cool as Lisa Scottoline would keep falling off a bicycle. But I read her books and they're awesome. Have you bought one lately? You should."
So that's what I learned from my latest bicycle misadventure.
That this is America, and good Samaritans abound.
And if you can't sell one thing, sell another.
Look for Lisa Scottoline and Francesca Serritella's new collection of humor essays, "Have a Nice Guilt Trip," in stores now. Also, look for Lisa's new novel, "Keep Quiet."