I wasn’t much of a roller skater as a child.
I enjoyed it, kind of? But also dreaded it.
Maybe once or twice a year, I’d be invited to someone’s skating birthday party
but only if it was the kind of party where all the kids were invited
or I’d go along with some kind of church youth group outing.
I liked the disco lights and the 80s music and getting a snow cone from the snack shop.
I liked the feeling of gliding forward, unsteadily.
I didn’t like feeling alone in a crowd or falling, arms flailing wildly, to the floor.
I didn’t like trying to go to the bathroom with roller skates on,
marching off the rink with oddly heavy feet.
I didn’t like backwards skating or partner skating;
no boy was going to hold my sweaty hand as we circled around the rink.
I don’t know why skating seemed so easy to everyone else
just like picking out clothes or doing hair or eye makeup.
I could only stop myself by purposely running into a wall.