To skate or not to skate

So last evening I debated about stuffing my size sevens into a pair of skates. I stood at the counter and tested out a size six narrow. My right foot zoomed off without the rest of me, and I suddenly remembered the dream Bill had: I was sitting on the floor, one leg forward and the other back; a crowd of people watching and taking bets on how long I could sit that way.

So, I reckoned with myself. Wearing anything on my feet that tight would give me corns or at least blisters. No thank you sir, a bigger size won't help; the wheels are just too slippery. Yeah, I chickened out. I take calcium; I have osteopenia. I uh, I well, I sat and watched my grandson Nicholas celebrate his 8th birthday with classmates and family. That kid can zip around like a pro, and he pops right back up when he splats. Me, I would have been down for the count and all bets would have been on.

I was married for twenty-five years, and in all those years, I can't recall my kids' dad ever roller skating. Why he decided last night to give it his best shot is a matter of conjecture. He held onto the sidewalls and made his way around the rink. As he exited, he came off the rink with his arms outstretched, flailing, his knees buckling, his feet about to slide out from under him.

I recognized that helpless feeling.