Last Saturday, my boyfriend and I decided to celebrate the heat wave of two degrees below freezing instead of 22 degrees with some wholesome, winter-sport fun. We went ice skating.
But our skating dates are not like the typical, junior-high-esque skating dates with two stumbling love birds holding hands and accidentally"" falling on top of each other.
""Oops, I didn't mean to touch that.""
""Oh, sorry, I, umm, thought you'd want to blow your nose later.""
No, not for us. Not only are we not 12, but as a robust Jewish woman, I've never had to stuff. Plus, unlike in every other aspect of my life, I'm not clumsy on ice skates. In fact, I'm actually sort of talented.
You see, I used to be a competitive figure skater. I was a beautiful, graceful and ambitious eight-year-old. Unfortunately, I quit before I hit 11, and therefore before I hit 100 pounds, before I wore my first bra, and before my body punished me every month for not being pregnant with excessive bitchiness and suicide-inducing cramps.
So, trying to skate at 22 when you last skated at 11 is like using a different body to do things you once perfected.
Last Saturday night when I couldn't jump without falling, turn without scraping or spin without decapitating someone with my sharp blade, all I had left were the dignity and memories of my glory days.
""You know I used to win competitions all the time,"" I told my boyfriend as we stepped onto the ice. ""If I had kept going I would've been at the Olympic level by 16 or 17.""
Jeff, being the tolerant boyfriend he is, kissed me on the cheek admiringly and encouraged me to show him some tricks.
""I'm not a dog or a hooker. They're not tricks. They're moves.""
Fine, I should show him some moves.
Once I turned around and realized skating backward was a lot more difficult than I remembered it to be, I should've known my single toe loop wasn't going to go so well.
After falling flat on my ass I turned to Jeff, threw my head back in a self-deprecating guffaw and said, ""Silly me! I haven't sharpened my skates in ages! Even the professionals can't land jumps with dull skates!""
As Jeff and I skated side by side in circles around the rink, I took notice of his form.
""You know, you'd go a lot faster if you pushed out with the ball of your foot instead of straight back,"" I told him.
""Wow, you're right. That is easier.""
""Of course I'm right. I was almost an Olympic skater,"" I said, shaking my head.
Since my insight had significantly improved my boyfriend's skating, I generously decided to impart my wisdom on some other unsuspecting amateurs. And I pronounced it ""ama-tours"" to sound awesomer.
I spotted a young girl stumbling over her feet a few yards in front of me.
""Excuse me, Olympic skater coming through,"" I said, parting my way though a rowdy high school crowd.
""Hi, honey,"" I said, approaching the girl. ""I'm going to do you a huge favor, OK?""
""I'm not allowed to talk to strangers,"" she said, crossing her arms defiantly.
""Show a little gratitude, you little brat. I'm practically an Olympic gold medalist and I came over here out of the goodness of my heart to teach you how not to look like a blind chihuahua humping someone's unfortunate leg on ice skates.""
""Wow! An Olympic gold medalist? Can I have your autograph?""
""Of course! We can negotiate price and mode of payment later,"" I told her. ""But first, try pushing your skates to the side instead of trying to walk. Maybe that'll help you stop sucking.""
""Cool! What's your name?""
""Kiera. Kiera Wiatrak.""
""Oh. I've never heard of you.""
""Really? That's probably because your parents don't love you,"" I muttered as I skated away with a grace unbeknownst to most humans.
""Unthankful little wretch,"" I mumbled to myself as I thought back fondly on the days of spinning, jumping and signing photos for my eager parents and family pets.
If you'd like some lessons, e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu and wire her $1,000. A day. She will also accept her weight in chocolate.
