A-Five, Six, Seven, Skate!
Of course, wading only up to your knees in Monday makes submerging yourself in an icy Tuesday all the more shocking. The line at Starbucks this morning was enough to make me want to pull the strings on my hood and play ostrich, and the seventeen thousand e-mails I waiting in my inbox didn't make things any sunnier. Even when armed with a grande Sumatra blend.
On the way out I got one of those up-and-down inspections New York women dole out like the Falun Gong zealots at the Times Square subway station hand out tracts. The woman casting a downward eye on my cowboy boots was sitting in the window and looked sort of like Trishelle from The Real World and every reality round-up show thereafter.
Look sister, I thought, I was disappointed when you weren't that reality TV slut.
Sprinkle that on your frappucino and suck it.
I spent this weekend at my parents' house, out of equal parts desire to hang out with my family and need for clean socks. Just when I begin to consider myself something of an adult, free laundry in my mom and dad's basement is the elastic that snaps me back into my adolescence like one of those rubber balls attached to a wooden paddle. From there it's only a small sidestep to gorging on my mom's chicken parm and collapsing on the couch to complain that there's nothing to do in Yorktown--undoubtedly the most popular pastime for Yorktown residents. I might as well be procrastinating on my algebra homework it's such a throwback to high school, but it's a comforting regression nonetheless. At my parents' house it's a given that I'll be home by ten at the very latest; at home in New York it's easy to consider the night a bust if I don't end it doing body shots off a tranny's rack.
Actually, last week the city treated me pretty well in the way of exciting stuff to do. On Wednesday Adriamnesia and I went rollerskating at the Roxy. Actual, honest to God rollerskating in all its late seventies, partner-spinning, Michael Jackson-listening, spandexy glory. I had a great time (though my sore behind might've told you otherwise the next morning). It was a classic recipe for fun, though: good company, plus an adorable boy in a plaid shirt to ogle, plus a brand new obsessive subculture to observe spells F-U-N for M-E. I had no idea that there were still places to rollerskate, nevermind an avid population of rollerskaters dedicated to cultivation of the craft. I have never seen people do in shoes the kinds of things some of these rollerskaters were pulling off on eight wobbly wheels. And, to boot, many of the super snazzy skaters looked like they'd been rolling around since the last time skating was trendy.
I rolled next to the wall for the first few laps, never more than an arms length away from something screwed to the ground. Within thirty seconds of my wheels hitting the wood an older woman in metallic leggings and a swirly skirt descended on me, handed me a lavender card, did a spin, and rolled away. Lezly, as it turned out her name was, owns a skating school. One would think if she were able to so quickly identify a beginner she would shy away from handing them reading material until they were seated, or at least a little steadier on their feet. Isn't it kind of like handing a student driver the owner's manual while they're on the freeway entrance ramp?
The potentially lethal combination of rollerskating plus alcohol could've rendered me a paraplegic, but we survived it with nary a scratch. Adrian managed to figure out all kinds of spins and squats and tricks. I totally mastered an advanced maneuver rollerskate aficionados call the Going Forward. Surprisingly, I also took home a newfound hope for finding a career.
When I was in high school and they made me take one of those career aptitude tests (An actual question: Please circle your level of interest in tying leather straps into bundles: Very Interested, Interested, Neutral, Uninterested...) I would always lament to my mother that I didn't know what I wanted to be, and how I shouldn't have to choose what I would be doing at fifty when I was only sixteen. She would always respond that I would figure it out eventually, and that maybe the thing I wanted to be wasn't even invented yet. When she was sixteen how could she have known if she wanted to be a web designer?
On my third or fourth lap around the Roxy, a man (who looked just like Carlos Mencia, but that's unrelated) skated up to me and asked me to tie the scarf I had looped around my neck. When I asked him why, he said it could slip off and get tangled in someone's skates, which I suppose is a valid concern, but doesn't mean it wouldn't be very, very funny to watch. I obliged though, and when he skated away I saw the back of his shirt read ROLLER SECURITY.
On Tuesday mornings when I've got to answer seventy-three thousand e-mails about free copies of orthopaedic surgery atlases, it's good to know that there's a world of career opportunity out there that includes things I've never dreamed of. Things like Roller Security.
I'm crossing my fingers that a job in Pad Thai Quality Control opens up.