Skate On My Good Man, Skate On

So the other day Belle was feeling particularly in the dumps, and I asked her what was going on.  She commented on how everything lately was all about GG- she had to sit through soccer games, listen to drum lessons, and witness the end of year hoopla that is the conclusion of the 5^th grade.  I have to say, hard to argue with logic.  The truth is that was exactly what our lives had been like over the previous few weeks, and in all honesty Belle had been a trooper- a trooper with a pouty lip, but trudged along nonetheless.  Despite months of constant requests of “Just choose an activity and I will sign you up!” there had been nothing that resonated with that little girl, so hence, for now, it is all about GG’s activities.

So, I told her that one day that weekend we would do something just for her, and she could pick what it was.  Her eyes lit up and she exclaimed “Sparkles!”

Sparkles is the resident roller rink.  My Georgia Skateland for all my Michigan friends.

Oh.

Sunday afternoon arrived and off we went.   Little did I realize what a lucrative business this skating thing was as I passed over $33 at the door just to get in.  This did not include the laser tag or any snacks.  Just skates.  But as I mentioned, Belle has wasted hours on the sidelines and eating lunch on the run in the backseat as we travel from one activity to the next, so in reality $33 didn’t seem like much price to pay. 

The second we walk in, it could have been $50 and I would have paid it all over again just to see that aura of happiness that radiated from her.

As we got in line to retrieve our skates (oh, yes folks, you know I did) I glanced around at the establishment.  I swear, aside for the current top 40 playing on the sound system, I could have been 11 years old and striding into Skateland with my freshly polished red, white and blue skates sporting my Michael Jackson Beat It jacket (Oh, yes folks, you know I did).  There must be some agreement with all skate establishments that there is a requirement for neon paint on the walls, everything must be covered in industrial type carpet, and they somehow, someway, pipe in the smell.  I swear- it is identical everywhere- some nameless combination that could only be called “Scent of Skatehall”. 

By this point everyone’s laces are tied up (GG, clearly to cool for skates, goes inline) and I very wobbly stand up.  By the time I am almost vertical Belle is already on the floor, stomping her feet that resemble tree trunks as they are weighed down with almost- too-big-for-her skates, trying to gain some momentum.  Arms outstretched at her sides for balance, as if she is about to take flight any minute, she makes her way around the first curve.  But when I look at her, all I see is that smile.  The smile that says she is living in the moment- the moment that was created for her, by her.

I place one wheeled foot on the floor that I am positive in some cruel twist of fate was just waxed , and wonder why I was not asked to sign a waiver.   Like an entire hold harmless to any injuries you are about to subject your body to type of waiver.  Hoping all insurance coverage is up to date, I tentatively skate out and join the girls. Hmmm… I think…  I may actually remember how to do this….. and just like riding the proverbial bike within minutes I was coasting around the oval with a tense but genuine smile on my face.  Memories of couples skate, skating races and “shoot-the-duck” flood my consciousness, and when Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin” comes on the speakers I swear it is 1984. 

We stayed for a few hours and we all genuinely had a good time.  I loved seeing how the girls continued to get better with each turn of the rink as fear took a back seat to confidence.  While it was a day that was just for Belle, selfishly,  I will take some of the memories we created and combine them with previous ones from my youth.  Either way, it’s a good reminder to sometimes stop the to-dos and just skate on.