The first
time we experimented it was in a controlled environment. No one was there to
witness the monstrosity. It was simpler, shorter, and it seemed, safer. The
second time was very much in public. On Cedar Lake trail. On the third of July.
If my husband wasn’t sure before, he certainly must know now how much I love
him.
I let him buy
me rollerblades. As an ex-ballerina and current yoga instructor you would think
that I would be the epitome of grace, but on wheels, blades, or skis, I am
nothing of the sort. Ten minutes into my public debut on wheels, I told Peter I
was sweating buckets. Out of fear? He asked. Why yes, I suppose so.
Thirty
minutes in I told him I was sure there was at least one internet meme of me being
mercilessly mocked in the world wide web. I said if an octopus and an ostrich
mated and you put it on wheels, that is what I looked like. He didn’t disagree.
Decked out in
knee pads, elbow pads, and wrist guards tentatively trying to glide down the
path and not giving a fluff for all the people who had to witness my attempt at
rollerblading all added up to running into someone I know. Of course. Twice. Of
course.
The first one
approached from behind – a biker and yelled “Hi Coley!” This was fun until I
realized he recognized me from behind; despite my flailing arms and Bambi on
ice rollerblading style he could tell it was me. The next one was full frontal.
I was on the walking path which seemed much safer than putting me on the bike
path even though I was on wheels. I apologized to people as I approached making
them move out of the way because I didn’t know how to maneuver around them
without ending up in the trees.
Yes, it was
all fun and games. Laughing at myself. Trying to embrace this new adventure.
Until I fell. Almost an hour into our outing, I completely wiped out. I am not
sure what happened exactly, but I am pretty sure I looked like an unsuspecting
cartoon who stepped on a banana peel. My legs flew out from under me causing my
arms to windmill through space desperately hoping to grab something to keep me
from hitting the tar. To no avail. I smacked hard on to my wrists and my
tailbone. My wrists were protected, but I did not have a tailbone helmet. (I
now want one.)
Tears from
the pain dripped down my face from behind my sunglasses. I hurt too bad to be humiliated.
There were witnesses, but I didn’t care. All my emotions of skating rushed back
to me. I never cared for not being on my own feet. I thought about skating
lessons in kindergarten at the Bloomington Ice Gardens. How I was tearful even
on the last day of class. And the two boys I had alternating crushes on coaxed
me onto the ice away from the sideboards and told me it would be ok. Looking
back on it they were really sweet for kindergarten boys. They didn’t even take
part in the paste eating that the other boys did.
I had to get
up. We were miles away from our car. I didn’t have shoes. There was only one
way back. With tears I skated on. Even though I knew where our car was, I kept
hoping it would be just around the next corner. Three falls later, though none
as bad as the first, we made it back to safety. After prying the rollerblades off,
my legs felt like absolute Jello. I was starving and sore. I think my husband
was proud. He should be. I was brave. I stepped outside my comfort zone and was
on wheels. In public.
I didn’t ever hate skating on purpose. I wanted to like
it. My dad had been a hockey player and skating with ease. This wasn’t my first
time trying it, but it was my first time in this decade. I had failed attempts
before. Although none of the tries was ever an hour and a half like this day.
And so many falls! But you know what, I am proud! Even if I looked like an
OSTRIPUS on wheels. I did it. And I will do it again. Peter will make sure of
that.
