Roller Skating Is the Root of All Evil

Remember when I went into a haunted barn because my friends convinced me to do it? Remember how that worked out? You would think after that, I would never succumb to peer-pressure again. Not so.

This time it was roller skating. I showed up at Champs indoor entertainment complex that day having already decided I would not roller-skate, that I would play laser-tag instead. Ah, laser-tag. That noble endeavor. That sport of all sports. The moment I don that sweaty target vest and clasp the gun in my hands, I become Laura Croft, ready to raid some tombs and take some names. Or crouch in a corner and shoot anyone who comes near me. It's whatever.

My favorite thing about laser tag is that, if you are bad at it (which I am) it doesn't matter. The only thing that happens when you fail at laser tag is that you get pretend-shot lots of times, and you get a low score. It's awesome. Not so with roller-skating.

Now, before we tried roller-skating, we had already played a few rounds of laser-tag, so I was feeling pretty empowered. When roller-skating was suggested, I voiced my concerns, but was assured that "no-one else knew how to skate," and "we would all be bad at it together." Like an idiot, I gave in. So, we went up to the skate rental kiosk. attatched to the front of the kiosk was a large sign that said, "Before you skate, ask yourself the following questions:" followed by a long list of questions about medical conditions and whether or not you had eaten recently. The list concluded with the question, "Can you skate?" It was as though the sign was throwing shade at me before I had even begun. Would that I had asked myself this question, and more, that I had answered myself truthfully. Instead, I whispered to myself such meaningless phrases as, "How hard can it be?" and "I just have to do it with confidence!"

Minutes later, I stood in the roller-rink, clinging desperately to the side, and regretting every choice that had led me to this moment. And yet, I somehow still believed I might get the hang of it. There was only one problem. I couldn't move. I don't mean I was paralyzed with fear. Although my legs were rendered quite jelly-like by all the adrenaline coursing through my body. So much for fight or flight. Let's hope I never come across an angry bear. What I mean is that I am so very skate-illiterate, that I couldn't figure out how to propel myself forward. Despite my friends efforts to explain it to me, all I could manage was a sort of panicked shuffle. The thought of lifting any of my eight wheels off the floor long enough to push off was terrifying to me. And what would become of me when I did push off? I would surely lose all control and go sailing into the opposite wall, shattering all my bones and ending my life in what would go down in history as the most ridiculous and pathetic end anyone has ever met.

I made it half-way around the rink only by clutching at the wall. But because the architect for this roller-rink was Satan himself, the wall ended halfway-around and gave way to little alcoves with resting benches. Sitting on these benches were various gaggles of teenage girls, also placed there by Satan. Now, I realized, I would have to panic-shuffle past these creatures that I have spent many years trying to intimidate into acknowledging me as their superior. Why else would I have dressed so nicely when I took my ACT?

I could not bear the shame. With difficulty I straggled my way into the alcove and sat down, pretending I was a cool kid like any other, a cool kid who just needed a rest. It seemed to me, just then, that I had two options: sit on that bench until death claimed me, or sit on that bench until death claimed me. It should be noted that all my friends who claimed to have no more roller-skill than I, were, at this time, sailing around the rink with a fearless ease that made me want to burn the entire establishment to the ground. Eventually, they came to my rescue, and with much coaching and encouragement, I panic-shuffled my way past the alcove, and to the saftey of the wall.

I cannot even begin to explain why I did what I did next. When I finally arrived at the rink exit, I DECIDED TO GO FOR ANOTHER LAP. I've heard about scientific studies that show that teenagers are missing part of their brain -well, here's the evidence. Somewhere, in my under-developed cerebrum, lurked the belief that this time I would get the hang of it.

I didn't. Round two went exactly like round one, except this time when I reached Satan's Alcove, he had upped the ante, and replaced the teenage girls with TEENAGE BOYS. How would they ever look at me and say, "Wow look at that beautiful, cold, haughty, unattainable girl that i'll never be good enough for," again after witnessing the panic-shuffle? They would not. To attempt to press-on would be to ensure that I would die an old-maid. So I sat and waited, until the Lord saw my plight and, in his mercy, sent down angels to carry me on wings like eagles away from the alcove. Upon reaching the rink's exit this time, I got out, and will stay out for the rest of eternity. Amen.