I fell in love on roller skates

They were turquoise with little iridescent stars flashed across the sides. Add purple shoelaces, Pound Puppy faces, and hot pink wheels, and you’ve got the most coveted set of skates at the rink in the summer of 1996. And they were all mine.

Think back to a time when overalls were the height of couture, the Olympics were in Atlanta, and squirt cheese was a delicacy, and you have a glimpse into the moment in time where I found true love at a skating rink in the middle of Appalachia.  

I know what you’re picturing. You’re imagining a dark room with neon lights and florescent floors as slick as glass. You hear Ace of Base over the loudspeaker competing with arcade games, teenagers laughing and falling and making the rounds, and I know you can all but smell that elusive combination of sock sweat and cigarette smoke. You’re remembering the good old days, and I like that about you. 

But scratch all that.

“We were the only two in the class, so aside from the rink owner, the skating instructor, and our two mothers watching, it was incredibly intimate.”

My mother tried in vain to pique my interest in sports. She had been a runner and hurdler, and I was a plump little eleven-year-old. You can do that math.

So, you won’t be a bit surprised when I tell you that I’ve had every lesson you can imagine. From gymnastics (fail) to clogging (whoa-fail), cheerleading (ha) to tee-ball (snooze). We even went artsy and tried recorder lessons and piano lessons, calligraphy lessons and art lessons… you name it, I gave it a whirl. But much to my mother’s chagrin, nothing really inspired the athletic spirit inside me. 

Enter: roller skating lessons. What a choice life skill.

Every other Saturday morning at 8:30 am, we met my instructor at my hometown roller rink. Lights too yellow-florescent, the smell of feet and industrial cleaner, FM radio (mostly commercials) on the loudspeaker. It wasn’t the stuff of dreams, but it was brilliant nonetheless. And I’ll tell you why:

Jacob.

He was tall(er), lanky, smelled like freshly-cut grass, and was a whole year older. We were the only two in the class, so aside from the rink owner, the skating instructor, and our two mothers watching, it was incredibly intimate. Go ahead and ask me how many times I fell over on purpose so he would help me back up. Go ahead and ask me how many times I accidentally tripped him.

In my mind, the whole thing played out like the lyrics to Strawberry Wine. It was love. True love. The kind you can only find when you’re eleven-years-old and meet a boy who’s willing to hold your hand on a Saturday morning in public(ish).

It was the sweetest summer of my childhood. Until, of course, I “accidentally” tripped him, he fell over, broke his arm, and never came back. I don’t know Jacob’s last name. I didn’t retain the ability to roller skate. And my mother-the-hurdler had double knee replacement surgery last year.

I might be a non-athlete who never still hasn’t found her talent, but damn if I wasn’t moved to love the boy I met on roller skates.

Editor’s Note: In our office imaginations, it looks a lot like this scene from Xanadu. And there’s more lip gloss + Olivia Newton-John + ELO + braided barrettes to this story.