We are ice skating.
Well, they are.
I’m just coming off a sledding injury, if you might recall. So I’m on the sidelines today, tightening laces and calling out words of encouragement. This I can do with minimal risk to myself.
So many of these skaters remind me of Gumby; their arms and legs stretch impossibly far as they lunge toward or away from the handrails. Half the parents are wearing shoes instead of skates. Equally as many are skating with iPhones in their hands.
There’s a startling number of little girls in Christmas dresses, all fluffy and perfect except for the soggy knees of their tights. I can’t really imagine the scenario from my childhood that might have prompted my parents to take me directly from a dress-worthy event to the skating rink.
There is a gaggle of girls all dressed alike, in Coumbia fleeces and black leggings, scarves and straight hair that I couldn’t maintain even in zero humidity. I want to whisper to them, “You all look exactly the same in your differences; you know that, right? It’s okay. It’s part of the life stage. You work so hard to look different that you look impeccably the same.”
It’s 57 degrees outside. My children are happy and warm, skating with no jackets.
The only thing that could make this any better is if someone could think of a reason to turn on those white lights overhead, even though it’s the middle of the day. But that give this whole scene just too much charm.
We better leave everything as it is.