My bum and ego are a little tender today

You may recall that I considered joining the local roller derby team. I couldn’t resist when one of their team members asked me to check them out. So for the last two weeks, I have rented those hideous skates, the kind that smell of rotten vegetables and veer in opposite directions, and joined the derby girls around the rink (at a considerably slower pace).

The women don’t have their own rink, so they practice at least once a week at a local venue, preferably on a night with low skater traffic. What type of night is this, you ask? Well, it’s Soul Gospel night. A Soul Gospel night so loud that it shakes the stuffed animals in the claw machine with the spirit. A Soul Gospel night that steals the beats from gangster rap/hip hop artists and covers them with lines about the importance of faith and funky soul grooves in the name of Jesus. An interesting juxtaposition.

I quickly learned two things:

1) Even if you were a skating queen in middle school, it may take a few practice sessions before reclaiming that title.
2) Those who actually come for Soul Gospel night have not stopped skating since Solid Gold .
a. I can tell this because they are doing the Hustle.
b. They wear towels in their back pockets.
c. They’re synchronized in a dance routine that would make the Macerena blush.

During my first session, I looked like a mobile windmill, flapping my arms to gain some sort of balance. Seven-year-old boys lapped me, skating backwards, imitating my quixotic arm flailing. By the second session, I gained some momentum. Michelle felt comfortable enough to lend me her speed skates, which rock the hell out of the rented skates that smell of cauliflower. I was so excited at one point that I forgot I was skating among those who holy roll for Jesus and threw up the sign of the devil. I was overtaken with the spirit, what can I say?

But then the inevitable happened. The inevitable I was waiting for…my ass collided with the rink. I was hoping it would be a graceful fall, one in which I would recover with a triple lutz and a curtsy. Rather my fall was a thunderous collapse directly upon my tailbone. A collapse that drew the attention of most of the skaters, who pulled my crumpled body off the floor and offered advice given from the best coaches around the world: “Walk it off, girl. Walk it off.” The pain brought a whole new meaning to the music’s exclamation, “God Almighty Lord of Glory.” Except my version included many expletives and wincing.