Pink Wheeled Roller Skates

I grew up during a time when play was something that was done out-doors and your moms were not the ones organizing it. It was definitely a carefree type of existence. I had a pack with another girl, who was also named Alexandra, that we would do everything together. We rode our bikes together, chased boys, and then one day she received a brand new pair of roller skates. I could easily keep up on my bike but, well that just wasn’t the point. There was motivation enough to hassle my own poor mother for my very own pair.

When I laid my eyes in the store on a pink wheeled pair, I knew that was the pair for me. At home I examined the neat bright white leather stitches and how the wheels spun, terrified to actually put them on. I hoped my mother would be content with me playing with the laces. I soon mustered enough courage to put them on and walk across the taupe living room carpet. I knew that once Alexandra no. 2 found out I had skates she would want me to put them on outside; a thought that paralyzed into carpet sliding action.

The next day, Alexandra no. 2 screamed with delight and offered to teach me how to skate which consisted of: get them on, tie the laces and roll. I knew I would have to do the work myself if I wanted to see results. As she had already learned to do some rudimentary spins I began to feel envious of her ability to get move so gracefully on something which caused me so much fear and exhilaration at the same time. I began to skate. The more I tried, the faster I became. Did I fall? Too many times to count but I knew what I wanted, and I was determined to get there on my own. Now as I rollerblade, tuck and fearlessly zip down a hill I sometimes think back to those old skates. They might not be so envious if they could see all the nicks and scars on my knees from my self-directed learning.