Ice Pack

I stopped dressing up for Halloween parties several years ago. I have a witch costume somewhere--a hat and some shapeless dress. I only bought that because it was easy and I never had to worry about whether or not it would fit. Before that, it had been years since I'd dressed up for a party. Well, any party other than the 80's parties we used to throw in college. And those pictures are hidden.

But this year, I was talking to some friends and came up with what I thought was a pretty good idea: a roller derby girl. It seemed like the perfect combination. Slightly slutty. Attention-getting. Funny. And pretty easy. So I thought.

Of course, the first priority in dressing up like a roller derby girl is...well, skates. I haven't owned skates since I was in 7th grade. They were white and had baby blue pom poms on them. I, like every girl my age, spent a lot of time at the roller rink. I could skate backward and could do the cross-foot move around the ends of the rink in the turn. My skill was challenged, however, by the squatting move where you stick your foot out in front of you, or to the side. That, I belive, is a skill best left to young gay men in rainbow suspenders.

I got a line on some skates. My friend's husband's father apparently used to skate pretty regularly. I'm still unclear as to whether he actually participated in derby skating or if he was part of some rural skate posse that patrolled the edge of town for wrong-doers. Suffice to say that the brake bumper of the right skate was worn to the nub and my friend told me to be very careful because her father-in-law always said they were "speed skates."

I borrowed kneepads (keep your jokes to yourself) and gloves from another friend who engages regularly in sports that could cause serious injury, but turned down the helmet. Because Halloween is for many things and big hair is one of them. I have a leather jacket and, even better, a pleather skirt. I invested in trampy fishnets, some ridiculous earrings and fake eyelashes and was ready to suit up.

Before donning all this gear, I decided that I might want to take a turn around the parking lot to determine if I still had my mad skating skillz. So I strapped these things on. Mind you, each skate weighed approximately 15 pounds and looked like they had been dropped on unsuspecting German hausfraus during the Dresden bombings. But they work. The skillz? Yeah, not so much. I did manage to keep my feet and didn't fall and, by the end of my fifteen minute training session, I felt like I could keep on my feet for most of the evening, as long as I didn't drink too much beer.

So I got dressed. The result was less "roller derby" than "hooker on skates" but, really, isn't that what Halloween is about these days. I went to pick up my friend, Kim, and her pirate eyepatch, and we were on our way.

The first stop was to a party that I go to every year--my friends got married about five years ago on Halloween weekend and they throw an annual get-together. I managed to get up the stairs to their house without incident. Luckily, they have a number of area rugs thrown over their hardwood floors and I did eventually negotiate my way over the tile floor of the kitchen in order to get to the wine. When we left, I took the skates off and ran in stocking feet to the car.

Next stop: the bowling alley. Yeah, I know, it sounds...well, kinda sad. That being said, I had a really good time. It was 80's heavy metal night at the bar and everyone had their mullet wigs on. The band is made up of some guys that Kim is friends with and there were a number of folks there with whom I know in a...well, a professional capacity, we'll say.

So the band starts playing. And people start dancing. "Living on a Prayer." "Smokin' in the Boy's Room." "Round and Round." "She's Only Seventeen." All the oldies but goodies. Songs that I still have on mix tapes stashed in my basement somewhere. Because, Lord knows, posterity needs tapes pairing hairbands and New Wave. And Dr. Dirty.

Kim and a number of other women decide that we need to go dance. Someone grabs my hand and pulls me out toward the dance floor. Which was remarkably easy to do, considering I had wheels on my feet and a beer in my hand.

You know where this is going, don't you?

I'm on this dance floor, in front of easily 200 people that I have met, on various occasions, over the past nine years that I have lived in this town. People that don't really know me outside of my job. People that are used to seeing me in a suit. People that probably think I can be a bit of a bitch.

And I fall on my ass.

Those skates whipped right out from under me and I went ass over teakettle onto the floor. I'm certain that I looked like the Coyote before he falls into the chasm--a look of bewildered puzzlement on his face. I landed sitting up, mostly, and thanking Heaven that I hadn't split my pleather skirt.

Later, people told me that they didn't even know that I had skates on until that moment (which doesn't speak so well for my dancing, I suppose). They also told me how amazed they were that I managed to keep my beer in a full and upright position on the way down. I was rather amazed, myself.

I changed my shoes, went back out and spent the rest of the night on the dance floor. To do anything else would have been to admit defeat.

Yesterday, I spent on the couch. With an icepack. The bruise on my right hip still hasn't really come out yet, which does not bode well for me. Walking is rather painful. I think I might have whiplash. And my elbow is a lovely shade of red. But, really, the only thing broken is my pride.

I'll be going back to the witch's costume next year. With ballet flats.