Ok, so last weekend wasn't
all bad. I did have a
fantastic time skating friday night, despite the rental
skates being the stuff nightmares are made of. Weaving in
and out of the ocean of teenage Lindsay Lohan wanna-be's, I
stopped next to one of the Skate Guards to catch my breath.
I mentioned to him, "God, I haven't been here in at least
ten years. The crowd certainly got younger!" He grinned.
"Hate to tell you dude, crowd's the same. You got old."
I did kinda feel like a perv skating about the rink packed
with little 15 and 16 year old barbie dolls. Oh well. I was
in my own little world flying across the ice. What a
euphoric sensation.
Afterward, and with feet freshly exfoliated (read:
blistered the fuck out of) by those infernal rentals,
I go to B-Dub's (Buffalo Wild Wings) and sit at the bar and
enjoy much beer and food I'd normally never touch, all
fried, while watching various sporting events on a ginormous
projection screen above the bar. Around midnight, I feel a
tap on my shoulder, and it's Angela! She's there with a
friend, and I go and sit with them. It felt good to finally
talk to somebody, despite the fact that I was already drunk
as fuck and babbling in a nonstop stream-of-consciousness.
(lemon juice on the paper cut: the next day, Jeremy told me
that at least six of his wife's single friends were at his
place and there and partying hard. I wanted to strangle him
for mentioning that.)
So we all know how Saturday went, but Sunday turned out to
be a not-so-bad day. I went out to run some errands in
Huber Heights, and to stop by MC Sporting Goods to price
lower-end hockey skates. Lo and Behold, there sat one
solitary box over by the skates, with a mysterious beam of
light from nowhere shining down in a sparkling golden glow
upon it. It's a gorgeous pair of Ontario hockey skates,
clearanced down to $22 from $70, the last pair left,
and
in my size! I swear I was only there to generate Christmas gift ideas,
but this was pure serendipity. This was no coincidence.
The Gods meant me to find these skates. I snatch them up
and drive down to downtown Dayton's Riverscape, as they have
a free skating rink there.
I don my new silver beauties and hit the postage stamp-sized
rink for their maiden voyage, admidst all the kids and their
parents. I had never skated outside before, and it was a
gorgeous day. Cloudy with a nice steady but light snow
flurry, and almost no wind. Smoke from the nearby firepit
mixed perfectly with the smell of the ice to make a heavenly
scent.
Despite the terribly choppy ice being in desperate need of a
good Zamboni-ing (as they do every two hours at Hobart
Arena), the Ontarios clung to it deftly and expertly.
I was meant to find these skates.
---
Which leads me to the reason I've come to theorize why this
weekend was actually the best weekend that could ever have
happend to me. Hear me out, this is funny...
Ok, so if I had gone to Jeremy's Christmas party, I would've
been attacked by all his wife's friends and wouldn't've gone
skating. Therefore I wouldn't've gotten re-hooked, sending
me on my quest for a comfortable pair of my own skates
instead of those sandpaper-lined rental torture devices.
Then, if Saturday night had panned out, since I was all
decked out in my new necklace that Michelle and Daniel
bought me and shirt picked up for the occasion, Sexy Amazon
Girl upon seeing me would've instantly left her Cute
Butt/Muscle Boy, and we'd've certainly spent all night and
into Sunday ravaging each other mercilessly.
Consequently, since I would be making mad monkey love well
past sunset, I wouldn't've gone and met my new skates. End
of story.
Well, since everybody tells me I'll find friends when I stop
looking for them, at Hobart I can guarantee you I'm not
there to meet anybody. I'm at least ten or eleven years
older than the oldest tight-clothed curvy little pop
princess there.
(BTW, where the fuck were these girls when I was 17??
Nobody looked that good back in 1995!)
So, as the reasoning goes, I'll be out there minding my own
business off in la-la land, when in will stroll a wayward
class of ten massage students from Sweden, all between the
ages of 18 and 45 and named Inga and Greta. Five Ingas,
five Gretas. Yeah. No! Wait, there's twelve... trailing
behind with muscles like Nick Lachey are Bjorn and Sven. ;-)
Anyway, they'll see me out there all by me onesy, and
they'll all say "Wow, look at that man out there all by his
onesy. He's so strong willed and independant to skate
without people to cling to, and so flowingly graceful, but
he looks lonely. Let's invite him back to our hotel rooms
to practice our massage skills on!"
And so I'll go, all aghast and flummoxed that I was invited
anywhere. Because, of course, I wasn't expecting to meet
anybody there at the Hobart Arena. They spend all night and
into the next day doing things that would make a porn star
blush all while singing with angelic voices and feeding me
grapes.
See? If last weekend happened as planned, that would never
happen. But now it just may. :-)
---
Either that, or some hockey father will catch me checking
out his little barbie doll daughter's backside and kick the
crap out of me in the parking lot.
---
Caro sent me this. Took about ten seconds of looking at it
quizzically before the onset of maniacal cackling:
