I love my stroller--it's a flaming orange BOB Revolution (here) with a brown interior and tan trim. So cute, so functional--it's easy to push, corners on a dime, and handles like a dream. It actually manages to make jogging fun. Truman looks good in it. I look good pushing it (I'm an "autumn," so it matches everything I own). It makes outdoor exercise safe and chic. In my opinion, it is perfect in every way.
Everywhere we go--to the park, to the zoo, to the mall--people stop me to ask about my BOB. Do I like it? (Yes.) Where can you get one? (Lots of online sites; you can find a list at www.bobtrailers.com.) How much does it cost? (About $360.) Would I recommend it? (Absolutely!) Would I consider selling mine? (No way.)
My stroller is so smokin' that this morning--as I went about my usual routine of answering e-mails during Truman's morning nap--a strange man pulled into my driveway, had his 8-year-old-son ring my front doorbell, and used the distraction time to pluck my beloved BOB from my wide-open suburban garage. His plan was foiled when I wandered out the back door instead of answering the front, practically ran into him, and inquired, genuinely baffled, "What are you doing?"
Startled, he stopped stuffing the BOB into the back of his beat-up Chevy pick up, and stuttered, "Uh, uh, uh...can I borrow this stroller for just a minute?"
By that time, I had managed to calculate that I did not know this man. I did not know his kid. He wasn't here to borrow anything. He was, in fact, stealing my stuff. Ever polite (and grammatically correct, I might add), I answered: "No, you may not."
I then grabbed the handlebar of the BOB, yanked it out of his grasp, and proceeded to roll it back into my garage where it belonged. I watched mutely as he whistled his kid into the truck, backed down my street and two others (ostensibly so I wouldn't see his tag number--all I got was the rebel flag adorning his front bumper), did distant k-turn, and roared off into the distance.
In hindsight, I can see how I might have acted more prudently. Probably, I should have called the police right away (I did file a report later). Probably, I shouldn't have confronted a strange man in my driveway. Probably, even opening my door, I put my baby and myself at risk.
But, come on--we're not just talking about any stroller, we're talking about my BOB. I couldn't let some criminal walk off with my BOB! All my ass-kicking instincts kicked in: Get your hands of my stroller you [insert your favorite expletive]! (So I kept it on the inside--so what? You can imply a lot with a heavily loaded "may not.")
If I had to do over again, I might do it differently; I might not. For now, I'm keeping my garage door firmly closed, and my house doors locked. And I'm telling the story of how if my morning burglar had succeeded in his plan, my stroller would have been hot in more ways than one.
Hillari Dowdle will fit back into her favorite pants one of these
days. Check this column every week, and you will no doubt be among the
first to read all about it!