Dec. 29, 1980
I went skating twice today. When I went this afternoon, I went with Carrie and Wayne & Rick were there. In fact it was kinda fun. I almost called Tim. I am afraid that he doesn’t like me. Or maybe he thinks I don’t like him but if that’s the case, he is dead wrong.
Ice skating has always held a certain romance for me. When I was growing up on the frozen tundra of northern Minnesota, the ice skating rink was a hub of activity. A place to meet and greet. To see and be seen. Long johns and down jackets were ways to look fashionably attractive (or so I thought).
Back then, I did what good Minnesotans are supposed to do: Enjoy winter with outdoor activity. Ice skating in almost any temperature (and wind chill) was one way to while away a cold day, even if you spent most of the time in the warming house.
Now I while away the winter by staying as far away from the outdoors as possible, but I still think of ice skating as a romantic activity.
My stepson, who lives with his mother in Minnesota, got new ice skates for Christmas, he told me last night (apparently, the rules about opening Christmas presents on Christmas don’t apply at his house). Many of his friends play hockey, and he was happy to report he could skate backward and he was “pretty good out there.”
I didn’t care about his prowess at checking, but he mentioned his girlfriend has ice skates, too. “Oh, how romantical,” I said with a flourish on the imaginary word romantical.
I smiled, thinking about the crushes I nursed around those rinks in the ’80s, about holding hands while taking corners, about leaning on a boy to keep from falling. And I hoped my stepson feels those same warm flutters of the heart at the chilly rink.