I don't have a picture from yesterday. I rarely remember to take pictures.
But allow me to paint a mental picture instead.
I am 42, almost 43. If you read yesterday's post, you are aware that Kara thinks I'm old. I'm fine with that.
I have spent the last 2+ decades of my life being grown up: making money, getting married, having and raising kids, pulling the weeds out of the yard, paying taxes, taking care of the plates and registration, paying someone to cut down the dead trees, going to the orthodontist with the kids... You know, grown up things. Everything except roller skating.
Roller skating sets me back to my teenage years.
I had a total blast--once I got past the tottering part. I never have been good on skates, but I was decent and could generally skate for the 2-hour time slot without falling down. I admired anyone who could skate backward, sideways, dance-ways, any-other-ways.
I strapped on my stinky, rented pair over my clean socks and became reacquainted with how to stay upright whilst my bearings beneath me wanted to roll every which way.
I inched over to the opening of the roller rink floor where I could enter that race track of speed skaters zooming by me.
You know the poky car in the right lane that everybody can't wait to overtake? That was me.
I went at the speed I was comfortable at, most of my effort going to keeping from splatting on the floor, everyone else flashing by me. I gradually picked up speed--over the next hour--until I was comfortable at a slightly faster speed.
I never did fall down; in fact, I ended up regaining a small percentage of the what confidence I used to have on skates.
Maybe I'm at an age where I should consider where I land in case something breaks. That would be sensible.
But rolling off in endless loops under disco lights made me feel like a kid again.