It’s hard not to smile when I strap on my rollerblades. Not just smiling in anticipation of a head-turning workout but in the nostalgia of all the memories that come along with the fruit boots.
Every time I lace up, my rollerblades take me straight back to the smell of the roller rink. Sweat, popcorn, and antibacterial spray roll me past the hokey pokey and straight to screaming, “YMCA” at the top of my fourth-grade lungs. Rollerblades transport me to holding hands with a boy for the first time, and whipping my friends around rounded corners to test the limits on how fast we could go.
Laces, velcro, buckle. Strapping in is a process, but perhaps it’s worth it to build a little anticipation.
The stagnant rink air has given way to a lifetime of alternative cardio. I can all but tumble down the bike path and feel the vibration of imperfect cement in my ears, this time taking me through Rhode Island forests and down lakefront paths in Dallas. The YMCA has gone the way of N*sync, instead syncing my ears with alt-rock and Bose headphones.
My rollerblades came to me in a fight, and a little bit of jealousy. Did I want rollerblades? No. But my older stepsister was getting them, which means that I not only wanted them but very suddenly needed them. “Mom! Why are you buying her things and not me!?” I whined in Target knowing full well I was too old to whine and that it was no way to negotiate. But still, I went home with matching rollerblades to my stepsister. Go figure.
Middle school Sam: 1. Mom: 0.
Rollerblades for Life
Yet 5 years later, I made room in the car to take my black and gold babes to college. Rollerblading was far from cool, yet I was out there, convincing girls on my dorm floor to join me on laps around campus, making memories and causing more than a few bruised bums.
5 years after that, I moved to Rhode Island and made rollerblading before work a habit. I cleaned the wheels when Atlantic sand slowed them down and the sea spray rusted out axle bolts. I got to think, and I got to fly.
So here, another 5 years gone, the fruit boots still whip me around corners and make me smile. Do I think of holding whatshisname’s hand every time I put them on? Every time. The roller rink DJ must’ve had his fair share of laughs looking down at us from his perch.
Laces. Velcro. Buckle. Smile. For me, for nostalgia, for next time.