We went ice skating Friday night at the Kendall Square Community Ice Skating rink in Cambridge, courtesy of a Groupon that gave us 2 passes and 2 rentals for $12. It’s the third time we’ve gone ice-skating together, ever. Mr. P is a natural, as he is with any activity involving frozen water: gliding, turning, with complete ease and grace. I am an unnatural: shuffling, wobbling, with thoughts of concussions stiffening my limbs.
We circled the smallish, oddly-shaped rink with about a dozen other skaters whose abilities ran the gamut. I was on the lower-end of the scale, but I managed to stay upright for the duration. Pop music blared — Britney Spears, some Eighties, some current stuff that sounded vaguely familiar although I never heard it before. Two men in their 20s played a spirited game of tag, sprinting between the skaters who looked on with good nature. A heavy, 40ish woman practiced semi-elaborate and totally impressive turns in the rink’s center. Mr. P showed off some fancy footwork: going backwards, dancing with little jumps, raising his left leg behind him and parallel with his torso.
Sometimes Mr. P took my hand and pulled me, increasing my pace beyond my comfort zone, but I laughed and squeezed his hand tightly. I began to have roller-skating flashbacks, and mused upon the strange contentedness bestowed by circling a rink with strangers on precarious footwear.
We skated for 90 minutes, including the zamboni break, and then headed out. Mr. P was buzzing with pleasure, like an artist who had just exhibited his work to an appreciative public.
“Why don’t we ever do anything I’m good at?” I asked on our way home.
“What are you good at, babe?” Mr. P asked. “You want us to read a book together? Write a short story?”
No. I guess we’re doomed to ice-skating.
