True/False Round Two...et caetera...

Well! So! Certain personages want to know why I have not posted and/or answered comments...the answer is forthcoming.

First, the background story. As you faithful readers know, I have recently joined a gym and am attempting to integrate more physical activity into my daily life. The Dear knows I need it!

Also, there is an ice rink very near my house, and I love to skate. I am REALLY, REALLY bad at it though, and it's been a couple of years since I've gotten the opportunity to improve. So over this past weekend, I decided to jump into the fray of an open skate on Saturday night and Sunday afternoon.

Saturday was chilly but bright. I gathered up my courage, the courage to be able to march, wobbling, on the thin blades of my skates up to the rink, get on the ice, and make a humongous fool of myself. I was just about to talk myself out of actually doing it when, over the very loud loudspeakers, there came the strains of Gretchen Wilson's Here For the Party.

I laughed aloud. "Well," I said to myself, "now is as good a time as any to get on the ice. At least you will be able to blog that you got on the ice to a song you knew...even if the majority of your acquaintances seem to think it's wicked (and wicked in the American sense of the word, no less)."

So I bravely grabbed hold of the side of the rink and slid onto the ice, precariously staying upright only by the dubious strength in my arms, hands, and fingers. At first I only skated tentatively back and forth in front of the seating area on the side because that was the only part of the rink's circumference that had a ledge I could grab onto solidly, with my whole hand and not just the tips of my fingers. After a while, I moved on to the rest of the rink, staying always right next to the rink's side, hanging onto the ledge with one hand while I tried to convince myself that I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. My body didn't want to trust my mind.

"Lean forward, relax, and push off with your feet," I kept telling myself. "Lean forward, relax, push off," became my little mantra.

When I could convince myself to comply, I did great! Eventually I was able to skate all the way around the rink without holding onto the side. It was awesome! After two hours of that, I was tired and the rink was closing, so I drove home.

The next day, Sunday, I went over there again. This time, however, I was not so fortunate. At first, everything seemed to be going well -- I stepped onto the ice more bravely this time and was soon skating back and forth without holding on (except for when I tensed up and felt as if I was going to fall).

Then my inherent love of speed caught up with me. See, I always used to get terribly bruised when I skated before -- not because I just couldn't stay upright, but because I wanted to go too fast and always ended up sliding round on my bum or my knee or my hip, depending on how severe my falls were. I would build up a little confidence and then just let 'er buck, whizzing round the rink as if I'd been skating my whole life. Then my overactive mind would scream at me, "STOP! You're going TOO FAST!" and I would tense up instinctively, preparing for the crash I knew was sure to come.

The crash would never have come if I hadn't tensed up, but of course I couldn't talk myself out of tensing up any more than I could ever talk myself out of being motion-sick. And I tried -- oh, believe me, I tried! My mum can do it, except when she's on a boat/ship, but I never could. Hmmph.

Anyway, this time skating was no different. I built up a little confidence and let myself go. Pure pleasure would flood over me every time I felt a bit of a cold breeze on my face; I just knew I was flying! I LOVE going fast!

Then...disaster. I was working on building up my speed again so I could stop pushing off with my feet and just glide, when all of a sudden a little bloke in a hockey helmet who reminded me of John Biebe's youngest cruised right in front of me. He was gone in an instant, but unfortunately, so was my concentration. I wobbled wildly, reaching out with my leather-gloved hands for something, anything, anyONE, to stop my impetus toward the hard hockey-stick-scuffed wall of the rink. Alas and alack.

THUD! was the sound of my rather plump little body hitting the wall full-out, and CRACK! was the sound of my unfortunate ankle that took most of the force. No, I didn't break it...only sprained it. I guess the tight ankle-supporting figure skates carried some advantage after all.

So there you have it, my friends. My grand excuse as to why I have not been writing lately (and it would also explain why I have been limping slowly round the college campus for the last week or so).

Am I a liar or a truth-teller? You decide.