Riding that mechanical bull evidently gave me a taste for the wilder things in life.
Keep in mind that I still haven’t figured out what my new life goal will be now that I’ve gotten that mechanical bull off my back. But I did a few things this weekend that rank right up there.
First of all, I went ice skating.
Big deal, right? Uh, yeah, it’s a big deal. Because, umm … I never learned how to roller skate. As a third grader, I was cool at the skating rink because I knew all the words to Weird Al’s “Eat it.” But I never actually, you know, skated. I put on the skates and then I sat on the bench. And since no one ever asked me to moonlight skate, well, it wasn’t a problem.
I hated the skating rink.
Anyway, in college, my blessed roommate attempted to take me under her wing and teach me how to skate. At a sorority/fraternity get together lovingly known as a “rollerkegger.”
As you might imagine, this was not the ideal time nor place to learn how to skate. Dear roomie had a full-body bruise to show for her philanthropic efforts.
So, cut to me being an adult and dating Mr. Wonderful. Mr. Wonderful grew up in Michigan. Where they have Winter with a capital W. And they have ponds. And evidently, everyone there just inherently knows how to ski and skate.
Mr. Wonderful thought it would be a romantic outing to go ice skating after a nice dinner.
I expressed my terror. And then I drank half a bottle of wine. And then we went to the ice terrace. (Notice how “ice terrace” is very similar to “ice terror.” Coincidence? I say no.)
He rented us skates. He put my skates on me. He put his skates on him. I sat in wonder of the multitude of little kids and teenagers around me who were all adept at walking on their skates. I was too scared to contemplate walking on the skates on actual, you know, ice.
We walked out to the rink in time to enjoy the Zamboni. That part was cool. The holding on to the railing while watching the Zamboni was also cool.
And then the Zamboni was done. The ice was shiny like a dagger just waiting for blood.
Mr. Wonderful promised I could hold his hand and hold the railing with the other. I wanted to barf.
We made it out onto the ice. After approximately two feet – and I’m not even exaggerating here – Mr. Wonderful, big stinking lying liar – told me it was time to let go of the railing. And then he pulled me away from it.
I held on to his hand with a death grip as gazillions of happy people whizzed past us. I had a stride of about two inches, but I didn’t fall down. And, strangely, Mr. Wonderful, the devil incarnate, looked really cute in his stocking cap.
I noticed another woman who was obviously skating for the first time. I felt bad that she was obviously about 10 years younger than me, but I immediately adopted her as my BFF.
It was maybe 30 degrees and I was sweating from nervousness (see a trend here?). But when Mr. Wonderful asked if I wanted to go around once more or call it a day, I wanted to go around again. And then again after that.
And I didn’t even fall down.
Strangely, I want to go back. Which is a little bit weird. I feel like I cheated death once and I should be glad for that and not chance it again.
But, maybe I’m all about new life experiences right now. Two nights after the ice skating triumph, Mr. Wonderful took me to a hard rock concert. Like, where the bands spit on the audience.
Because I’m 92 years old, I thought, “Now, that’s not at all hygienic.” But it was fun. And, even though I have a minor in women’s studies, I found myself laughing to a song called “She loves my c**k.”
I know. I’ve obviously lost my mind.