Tomorrow, we are taking the boys to a birthday party at a roller rink. It will be their first time roller skating. This has disaster written all over it.
Even thirty years ago, I had no desire to wear rental skates when we went to Carousel or Dairy Ashford Roller Rink. So I begged and pleaded for a pair of white roller skates, a request to which my parents finally relented. I thought these skates would make me glide with the grace of Dorothy Hamill (and I thought they’d make my hair look good like hers, too). Because my parents wisely had no desire to continue buying new white skates as my feet grew, they bought them several sizes too big. These are a size 7, which means that I can still fit them.
I had to dig into the dark recesses of a closet to find these. Much to my chagrin, as soon as I proudly lifted them from their hiding place underneath an old bumper pad and a box full of unused table linens, the wheels began to disintegrate. After all these years, the urethane had cracked and the outside of my wheels started falling off in big, red chunks. I left a trail of red plastic in my wake as I took the skates downstairs and out on the back patio to show the kids, who had been outside on the swings.
I won’t be able to wear these at the party. Secretly, I’m disappointed that I won’t get to channel Dorothy Hamill while I attempt to guide two flailing children around the rink. But I hope Hubby will still hold my hand during couples skate.
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