Constants and Exceptions

There are few constants in this world outside of those found in mathematics. One of these few is the state of an ice skating rink in Indiana’s midwinter. One can count on the teenage boy who just learned how to skate backwards and is willing to cut you off to prove it, the kid who fell and won’t get up despite a parent’s prodding, there are also the adults sitting and waiting in the stands for their kids living for them, and there will always be someone younger and more talented than you could wish to be.

Sometimes, there’s also me. Sometimes I’m flat on the ice, struggling to get back on my feet. Sometimes I’m goading a friend into a race. More often than not, I am ignorant. I am ignorant of the kids on the ice except when it is necessary for me to slip out of the way to avoid a collision. This tactic doesn’t always work, but one lives and one learns and one developes instincts.

Right now, my knees are a Pollock painting of reds and blacks and blues. They are constellations of broken skin and patches of deep, dark sky.

Most of all they hurt.

The ache extends to my thighs and carries on through my lower back to melt into my biceps.

The impressive bruises are the redeeming factor of skating. They remind me that I did something worth bruising. That I pushed myself beyond my regular limits and flourished.