When Your Shoes Are Trying To Kill You
The point that makes or breaks a couple is always the point after the honeymoon phase. Ah, the end of the chemical romance and the beginning of real love. The legends with double digit anniversaries are the ones who let the spark die and waited for the embers to come back to life. We expect it in our relationships, this change, but in other things in life simmer in affection, we are often wondering where the fire extinguisher or nearest exit lurk.
My honeymoon with roller skating was more like a long weekend instead of a two-week cruise. I started off so in love with the adrenaline, the wonder of pavement swirling past. Eagerly after work I’d throw my skates in the car, racing my sister to the park for our nightly rounds in the parking lot. For a certified accident magnet I picked up the basics pretty fast, ancient ballet skills rising so I was only occasionally a concrete pancake. A fall or two at most gave a few bruises that made for a better party story than computer induced carpal tunnel. Meetings were perfect opportunities for daydreaming of my obviously imminent skate park career, as visions of 360s danced in my head.
That is until I had a very, very (and I cannot emphasize this enough) badday of roller skating.
The day looked no different from its predecessors. I worked, I ate, I worked, I sent hundreds of emails, I pondered existentialism, I pondered why we all want to squeeze small bunnies. At 7 o’clock we hopped in the car as before. Already the creeping suspicion of impending doom lurked near. I figured it was because my sister Morgan and I were in a vicious battle for control of the playlist. Wrapping my wrist guards very slowly, I pushed off to the great grey lot as before. While I could stay upright, I seemed to be channeling a skate style similar to toddlers learning to walk or millennials at 2am on Main Street, that thrill of being very near death at all times keeping my audience simply enthralled. However for me, the prima klutz-a-rina, it was such a trying performance to feel constantly on the brink of a broken arm. Yesterday I had legs, today I had weighted barbells.
The creeping sensation of hysteria growing, I frantically tried to redirect my simmering thoughts. This was highly successful as I immediately landed in a delicate starfish splay across the park flower bed. Mumbling I stood back up and got some cardio in by staying in perpetual running man for a few minutes before finally escaping the matrix to forward. Convinced my skates were possessed, I lowered myself to the ground (this time by choice) to check my wheels and tweak the tightness, since obviously the struggle is due to the shoes, not the skater. The shoes caught on and switched games to a new one called “let’s find all the cracks and break your back.” Forced to the floor I hunt again for the magnet on the bottom attracting trouble. The magnet is clearly invisible and cleverly hidden, probably by Alexa or Siri. As I continue to reason (logically), my sister interrupts.
“Page, you are getting so stuck in your head! Stop being so afraid of falling. You are the boss of the skates — you control them!”
Angrily after a third fall I crash landed into the car. “Page, get out of your head,” she pleaded. I was too far in. I ripped off my shoes, tears streaming furiously down my face. This was why I wouldn’t be brave — it always leads to pain. These things work for Morgan, but fate seems drawn to always putting me back in place. I couldn’t afford another injury; another place for the rain to cause aches. The unceasing tears continued as I stormed away. I blamed my body, the bad wheels, the pavement, but I knew this was not a consequence of circumstance — this was the result of a mental choice. The well-known exercise I chose each day — be safe, not brave.
Easy for her to be risky and brave. She was always the wild one, the free spirit. No one expected her to be responsible. Morgan never had the rule book emblazoned on her forehead, or the draw to make everyone incredibly happy at all times — she did that naturally being our whimsical fairy child. Instead as the first born, I chose to take those on, to keep track of the “rules” to play the game. Even as tiny girls playing in big dresses, I always had an eye over my shoulder, always listening, always scanning for the monster in anyone’s closet. I would read every face with caution, wondering what I needed to do to keep us safe, keep everyone happy.
As we grew up this translated into Morgan becoming a ski instructor and me a CPA at an established investment bank. No one was surprised by my path, I had a reputation of doing the right thing, correctly calculating the right step no matter how my heart screamed. I’d laugh as Morgan sent me pictures from her latest escapades, and sigh as I’d turn back to another day of meetings. Carefully tucking away the longing to pick back up the happy mask expected of me. Time passed so that Morgan became more brave, but me, well, I became safe, or really, more afraid.
My fear was not just in career choices. I was incredibly afraid of taking any risk that could hurt my body. As a two-year-old I begged my mom for ballet classes, and immediately thrived in the sea of leotards and pink shoes. Heart set on the stage, I seized any chance to hear the rhythms of Bach and “5,6,7,8.” Teachers noticed my talent, and encouraged auditions to summer camps and special classes. As a freshman in high school I made the varsity dance company and quickly took on jazz, hip hop, and modern. I was offered walk on roles in theater productions. It seemed inevitable my path would lead to a dance company or arts college. In one day, one class, everything changed. A simple combination involving a switch leap led to a bad land, resulting in a sprain in my hip. I jumped too high, leapt too far, and landed too hard. I walked it off and resumed, vowing to be more careful. This just marked the beginning, as knees started to dislocate, ankles turned over, hips hurt for hours after rehearsals. Panicked, aware that any time off could set me back in an industry with no mercy, I fought through pain to stay on stage. Eventually my body rebelled, and I cancelled auditions for college business school applications. I leapt too far, and I got joint pain. Lesson learned, passions are for children and post-high school was to be safe, calculated, void of unnecessary leaps. Find a job that would not notice a broken body, and would not see a broken heart.
The first day I laced those skates was ten years after my last solo on stage. It was the first time I had attempted anything remotely risky that had the potential for injury. I stayed active over the years, in yoga, hiking, kickboxing. I just ensured that what I did, I would be very, very safe. In yoga I never tried arm balances — might break a wrist. In hiking I never tried unbeaten trails — might break a leg. Kickboxing I never sparred in person — might bruise a nose. The “mights” of any activity outweighed the possibility of success. Roller skating though has a 99% chance you will fall at some point. It is guaranteed you and the ground will occasionally converse. For Morgan, moving past fear was a daily exercise. Nothing was permanent, sprains healed, bruises faded, broken bones could be mended, jobs could be found. She never looked at the dangers in the way but saw the glory in the end. I could not blame her that I was not living the life I dreamed of. She might have been inclined towards adventure, but the act of living it out was a daily decision, as living in fear had been mine.
Eventually I calmed down. “It’s just a bad day,” my mom said. I nodded sadly, and took a slow breath. The grief rolling back and forth settled down, we had reached the eye of the storm. It was just a bad day, a bad choice. If I’m lucky to have another, I have another chance, another choice.
When we pulled back into the parking lot the next day, I decided Tuesday was a good day to be brave — not safe. “Stop focusing on the bumps in the pavement, keep your eyes where you want to go — your body follows your sight,” Morgan counseled. I pulled myself up, and heeded her advice. I stopped looking at the bumps and noticing the miraculous breeze in mid-June Texas. I let my legs know they could be trusted, and paused the mental track of “you shouldn’t” that was usually on loop. No longer opponents, my feet and my skates led the way, as I twisted and turned in circles down the lot. Silently we put our gear in the back of the car, moving slowly to enjoy the fading pink in the sky. Humming to the song on the radio, I couldn’t help but say, “Today, was a really, really great day to skate.”