My goal this Easter was to do something active. Sunday is not a normal workout day for me, but it's also not a normal food day for most people. It's one of those "if it ain't nailed down, eat it" sort of days. So I thought, if I can balance the massive amounts of deliciousness with a little activity, there would be a little less guilt in having two slices of pie.
Could YOU choose between Key Lime and Apple? I thought not.
So I packed my little bag with workout gear, my inline skates and my protective gear - knee pads and wrist guards. I was going rollerblading with The Nephew.
It should be noted here that I was once a rather accomplished inline skater. Sure, I fell a lot, but when you're willing to try stuff, ya gotta be willing to fall. Most of the time, though, I was able to stay upright. My sister Jenn and I could be found most weekends on the Fox River Trail, wending our way Northward with a breeze in our hair (and the occasional bug up our noses.) So I wasn't prepared for how difficult it was going to be after a few (okay, 13) years to put on the skates and hit the trail once again.
I should have tried smooth pavement. (Hell, I should have tried a padded room!) I should have gotten practice in a newly-blacktopped parking lot or somethin' like that, but instead ... we hit the trail.
The bumpy, hilly trail.
I made it up the first hill. I began to doubt my ability to skate. I made it down that hill (with many prayers of intercession.) I made it around that bitchin' curve and I made it up the second hill. I began to doubt my sanity. Then, I had a brilliant idea: The Nephew and I should abandon this trail (it really, really is bumpy) and go to another park, where there's a 1.5 mile loop that (if memory serves) is paved in such a way that it doesn't feel like gravel beneath your feet. So we turned around.
And that hill I'd just come up? I had to go down it.
I made it almost all the way to the bottom before all hell broke loose. My feet seemed to leave my body and my backside met the pavement. Skid-bounce-skid-bounce-skid-bounce-shit. I finally came to a halt. I couldn't breathe. (Seriously, I sounded like a flooded engine trying to start.) The Nephew was obviously scared that I was having a near-death experience, because he high-tailed it to my side. Once I caught my breath, we started to laugh. (And I, of course, remembered my other great skating fall, when my sister Jenn was laughing too hard to help me up while I lay in a lump, crying because I had just skinned my entire left side. I think the next generation might be kinder and gentler, but I did eventually forgive Jenn.) I got up (finally) and we began to skate back to the car. There was no way I was going to make it; my everything hurt. So I took off the skates and walked, laughing at my own "grace" and wounded pride.
It hurts. It sorta looks like I took a cheese grater to my upper thighs (or lower butt, as I like to call it.) I wrenched the hell out of my back, but I will not be deterred. Up until impact, it was great fun.
And the truth is, I only got hurt because I was willing to get out there. Sometimes, you get hurt. When you're willing to take a risk, even if it seems a rather minor one, there's the chance you're gonna end up with a boo-boo. I will do it again, and I'll probably fall. I'm gonna be smart, and I'm gonna get some practice where it makes sense - like the driveway, maybe, or a skating rink. But there's no way that was my last time on skates. Because you may not be able to teach an old dog new tricks, but an old dog is perfectly capable of re-learning tricks she used to be quite good at.