I took my kid roller skating today. I have to bear in mind that opportunities for these kinds of just-us dates in the middle of lollygagging Saturdays are ever dwindling. Somehow I must relish in the stinky brushed-suede nastiness of rotting rented skates and too-shiny rink floors, to imprint on my mind the sweetness of red slushies and the wonder of her still wanting to hold my hand during a couples skate.
While I came of age in the garish, glinty, Jordache Jeans-Thriller-Neon and acid washed 1980s,
I'm actually really glad that my kid isn't going to have her first awkward sensations of budding pre-teen sexuality in the neighborhood roller rink. The way things are going, her first kiss will probably be via Skype.
While I'm definitely not saying that the dank, poorly-lit corner of a skate floor is the ideal place for a girl to discover the power of cotton candy lip gloss and a plastic comb in her butt pocket, a part of me mourns the experiences she will never have.
My first date, at the age of twelve, was at Laces, the roller rink down the road from our house (which was later bought by yuppies and changed to The Rolls, after which it closed almost immediately) and the experience was magical and heart-palpitatingly delicious. Of course, the date only even happened because my best friend at the time, after being instructed explicitly by me at a sleepover, called the poor bastard and told him to ask me out to go skating the following weekend.
But let's not focus on details. He did as he was told. Perhaps this was a first step in a terrible lifelong progression of me expecting men to do what I told them to. I don't know.
Regardless, I was bewitched by the poor schmuck. He was quiet and sweet and had a giant head of dirty blonde hair and the skinniest frame I'd ever seen, even on girls my age (which earned him the affectionate nickname from the older girls at school, "The Mop").
Too cool to admit I'd orchestrated the whole damn thing, I arrived a little late, found him and instructed him right off the bat, "You'd better not try to hold my hand or anything". I might even have added a curse word in there for effect. "You'd better not try to hold my damn hand"; "You'd better not try to hold my shitty hand". Clearly I wanted to maintain control.
My god, kids are stupid.
We skated to some fast songs and I tried out my ridiculous made-up dance to Earth, Wind and Fire's "Let's Groove Tonight" (something with fist-bumps and extended arms). We took a Snickers break and maybe had a hot dog, and before the date was over, we eventually did hold hands to a couple of slow ones. And it was heavenly.
Now, thirty years later, I still can remember exactly what those disco lights did to my already spinning head. How beautiful I felt with the breeze lifting my hair off my neck. How wonderful it felt to just glide glide glide next to a boy I liked on a roller rink floor. Nothing seemed simple back then, but wow. It really fucking does now.
