THE SONIC BOOMER
My granddaughter’s 10th birthday party was last Saturday, and she chose to have her party at an indoor ice skating rink. My job was to get there early, check us in and cover the tables with festive tablecloths. Then I filled 24 goody bags with candy and toys while her father set up the music and her mother set up the food. We were a well-oiled machine, having done this before.
At 1 p.m. on the dot, the guests started arriving — boys in hockey jerseys and girls in stretchy, pastel-colored sweater and slacks sets. They got their skates at the rental area and laced them up as the Zamboni machine made its final pass around the rink, leaving in its wake a glistening white surface just begging to be sliced up.
It was at that moment, that I lost my head. I wanted to go ice skating!
First of all, let it be said that women “of a certain age” do not need to be tottering around with blades strapped to their feet. Women of a certain age need to sit proudly and helpfully on the sidelines, smiling demurely at the children and handing out flavored water upon request. Second of all, a childhood spent on the ice in Wisconsin is no excuse. That was then. This is now.
The Zamboni pulled into its allotted parking space, and the children expectantly began filing out onto the ice. Soon there were shrieks of joy echoing through the building. I wanted to go ice skating!
I began plotting my inclusion. After calculating the time it takes broken bones to heal in the elderly and running through my schedule for the upcoming months in my head, I decided I could risk it. I could afford to be on crutches through Thanksgiving.
So, when no one was looking, I made my way to the rental area and flashed my wristband. They non-judgmentally handed me skates! I felt like I’d robbed a bank. I put them on far, far away from the party and anyone who’d try to stop me. When the coast was clear, I gripped the side wall and put one foot onto the ice.
Wow, I thought, this is really slippery.
But I was halfway there. I was going to get away with it! I put the other foot onto the ice and let go of the wall. I took a step, then another, then slid.
Sliding was definitely the way to go. In fact, I could almost hear my dad yelling at my five-year-old self, “Don’t walk, slide!”
So I slid. I slid all the way around the rink, passing the smaller skaters and ignoring family members who were gesturing at me wildly from the sidelines, wearing horrified expressions. But I could feel the cool wind in my hair. I could feel my heart pumping healthily. I went a little faster.
I started to weave, gracefully. I successfully swerved around a child who had skidded my way and another who crossed directly in front of me, clomping loudly. I considered flipping around and skating backward as I felt my old confidence coming back. I was ice skating!
Two hours later, our time on the rink was up. The children and I made our way to the tables for cake. My granddaughter rushed over to me and said, “Grandma, you’re a better skater than all of my friends!”
Perhaps, but I’m going to quit while I’m ahead. I’m not taking synchronized skate-dancing classes or joining a roller derby league or anything. Because I don’t really want to be on crutches through Thanksgiving. Still, it was a glorious day.
