Skating on Thin Ice

There are times when the absurdities and comedic circumstances of life are simply too surreal to be believed or scripted. For me, one such scenario played out in a little ice skating rink called Eastside in Baltimore City, when I was in my mid-twenties.1

Having recently exited a relationship with an older and significantly less mature man, a few friends selflessly sacrificed a couple evenings each week in a concerted effort to get me off the couch, out of the house and away from the box of Kleenex. A co-worker and good friend, named Wendy, breezed into my cubical one day to inquire about my ice-skating skills. My immediate response was, “I have none.” Her grin was genuine, if not slightly disconcerting, “Good! Tuesday night is open skating at Eastside and you’re going.” And so began some of my most embarrassing moments both on and off the ice.2

We discovered early on that a full tummy, and copious amounts of warm Saki, helped to soften the impact of bum to ice, so we incorporated dinner at the little sushi joint down the block from the skate rink as part of our evening routine. On one of our Tuesday excursions, the Saki did more than simply soften the impact of my backside smacking the ice.3

After skating (poorly) for over an hour, the DJ announced that all patrons needed to clear the ice so the Zamboni could work its magic – and so ensued the mass exodus from the rink to the snack bar and adjacent arcade. Wendy and I hobbled and nudged our way through the wall of pre-pubescent teens who were consumed with flirting, inhaling pizza by the slice and deciding who to slow skate with until we found ourselves in front of a vintage pinball machine. We plunked a few quarters in the slot and starting playing. 4

I had just launched my second ball when a long-nosed, olive-skinned young man, who had been standing next to us in a huddle with his friends, sidled over to the machine and stood to my right. It was a bold move that deftly positioned him well within my personal bubble. Wendy and I exchanged a brief, un-spoken “Uh-oh” glance, and I pretended to ignore the lad, who couldn’t have been any older than 13 or 14 years of age. 5

“So, you like pinball,” he managed with a slight squeak. I nodded in the affirmative, careful to avoid making eye contact. A minute or so passed and any hope I had that he might wander back quietly to the huddle from which he came evaporated instantly with the words, “So what grade are you in?”6

If memory serves me correctly, that’s when Wendy expelled diet coke through both nostrils and sprayed the pinball glass with a fine layer of carbonated coke syrup. My reaction was only slightly better, “I am not in school. I graduated college about 5 years ago.” Satisfied that my answer offered adequate discouragement, I turned my attention back to the playfield.7

“Wow,” the lad retorted, “An older woman.” I snapped my head around just in time to see his left eyebrow arch high enough to make even Mr. Spock jealous. “I like that,” he added and leaned an elbow on the pinball machine. That’s when Wendy removed her self from the conversation tactfully by wrapping both arms around her torso as she slid down the wall, cackling like a witch from Grimm’s fairy tale. She was in no condition to help me.8

Now that the boy had my full attention, I explained politely how I had just broken up with my boyfriend and wasn’t interested in dating, conversing or socializing with any member of the opposite sex. Surprisingly, the reaction was one of understanding and empathy. The boy shook my hand, wished me luck and walked back to his friends, shaking his head.9

After picking Wendy up off the floor, we decided it was best to leave Eastside. The next morning at work, word had spread like wild-fire, no doubt with Wendy’s help, that I was a heart-breaker. Throughout the day, sticky notes inscribed with, “What grade are you in?”, “Where is my allowance?”, “Will you drop me off at the movies?” and “I bought you these flowers with my lunch money” kept finding their way into my cubical. And then there was the constant queue of co-workers at my desk seeking full disclosure of the previous night’s misadventure. 10

But not once, during the re-telling of the tale or chucking of sticky notes, did I think about the failed relationship with my former boyfriend or the fact that I was single again – I was too busy running interference and thanking Wendy for being such a good friend.11