Hockey Boy

What does it say about a middle-aged girl (I just assume I will die when I am 88 so I am middle-aged now at 44) who agrees to go ROLLERBLADING on a date to impress a wine guy who turns out to really be a hockey guy?

His wine guy profile includes a picture of him in Rollerblades on the boardwalk. (Yes, ladies, that's him there.) I recall that I OWN Rollerblades. I may have, in an attempt to impress him, mentioned that to him at some point. He remembers and asks me to skate on my newly paved street with him. Now, I know what you girls who read my blog are thinking and yes...I certainly tried to use new relationship sex as a diversion and convince him that we could skate another day. It didn't work! So there I was...sitting on the front steps... lacing up my skates... trying to figure out how the buckles work...wondering if my decision to skip wearing pads in favour of looking cute was a good idea after all....and still trying to talk my way out of it.

Here's my background: I ice skated on a pond in my backyard until I moved south at age 11. I roller skated when I was a teen at the local roller rink. I am a former ballerina AND a Libra -- balance should not be an issue , dammit!

Here's his background: He came out of the womb with hockey skates on (OK...maybe not...that sounds painful for his poor mom!), he was a hockey star in high school and in college (some little school in Columbus, Ohio) and, apparently has skated EVERY DAY OF HIS LIFE!

He will not let me fall, he says. In fact, I think that's what he was saying as I slide off the end of my driveway, flailing my arms, completely airborne and landed on my ass. It was a beautifully executed tumble and even the Russian judges would have given me a 9.85 for it. I bruised my butt, pulled something in my shoulder and damaged my ego. He did not laugh at me. He skated over, looked at me with those amazing blue eyes, smiled at me and pulled me to my feet even though I was pretty sure that that was not where I wanted to be. It was that smile that made me try again. He jumped over sticks and stones and I tripped on pollen particles and flattened pine needles. I grabbed at cars parked on the street to keep from crashing. I skated like a toddler learning to walk and he circled me in figure 8s and other higher numbers. And the whole time he just smiled at me. The neighbors came out on their porches for the evening's entertainment and while I was certain I would embarrass myself, I was grateful that someone watching might dial 911 for me.

The second fall was less spectacular. The bruise, however, was larger and today is blacker, bluer and sorer. I just laid in the street looking at the sky and wondering if I could make gravel angels if I fanned my arms and legs out. Again, he didn't laugh. Again he helped me up (and again, I wasn't so convinced that I wanted to be up.) He held my hand. He skated backwards and pulled me along. He was a patient and gentle teacher and when I declared myself done with my first lesson, he didn't call me a pussy. He made me cosmos to dull the pain and let me snuggle up with him later even though I smelled like IcyHot (which smells oddly like those little pink Brach candies).

So...will I do it again? Absofreekinlutly! I have something to prove to my middle-aged self (and my neighbors)... besides, ladies... how could I resist that smile?