Yikes. So apparently, sending a group of heartfelt (but slightly melodramatic) messages to several friends that “this may be the last message you get from me…” followed by a photo and video of me in rollerblades was… not received with the playful, chaotic flair I had envisioned.
Turns out, when you have a well-documented mental health history and a reputation for going full existential in the group chat, people take those messages very seriously. Who knew? (Me. I should have known. I know now.)
Anyway. Bless my beautiful, anxious, ride-or-die friends who leapt straight into worst-case-scenario mode like Olympic gold-medalists of emotional triage. They were on it. Phones ringing. Texts flying. Emotional support emojis being deployed in real time. Meanwhile, I was gliding (read: wobbling with incredible dramatic flair) down the bike path in the sun, having the absolute time of my life.
Yes, friends, this is my formal public apology. I’m working on being more intentional with my words and maybe not pairing apocalyptic phrasing with footage of me looking like a baby deer on wheels.
But let’s get to the real headline here: I rollerbladed 4 miles today and didn’t die once, emotionally or physically! Ankles? Shaky. Confidence? Skyrocketing. Sweat? Profuse. Regret? Minimal.
I’d been toying with the idea of getting a bike to pair with Oscar (that’s my van, not a man, although I do like my vehicles emotionally complicated and slightly unreliable). But Oscar doesn’t have a hitch yet, and I don’t have hitch money. So I looked down, saw my little gay feet, and thought: What about smaller wheels?
Enter: rollerblades.
Inspired by this glorious, radiant woman I see skating by the beach every single day. She dances as she blades, headphones in, sun glowing off her perfect skin and… no exaggeration… the nicest ass I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
And listen, I’m not even into women like that. But her butt has gravitational pull. That butt changes lives. That butt is a call to action.
So now I’m on a mission. To save gas. To feel joy. To maybe, someday, have half the poise and posterior presence of my beach-blading icon.
Also: I have to remember to bring a change of shoes because, I assume walking into a 7-Eleven in full rollerblades is not the same as making a dramatic movie entrance. It’s more like watching someone try to moonwalk on marbles.
Anyway, I’m thrilled. I’m sore. I’m maybe a public menace on wheels. But I am happy.
And if I fall (which I will, let’s be honest), I promise I’ll document it—just maybe with a little less end-of-days phrasing and a little more “Hey, guess who looked like a scared baby goat doing cartwheels in a parking lot today?”
We grow. We roll. We moisturize our bruises. Let’s ride.
