Not water under the bridge

One morning, I awoke and asked myself, if I could do anything today, anything in the world, what would I do?

It’s a beautiful luxury to have this ability. If I were married with babies, I couldn’t do it—which isn’t to say that wouldn’t be a nice life too; it’s just not where I am. And rather than wallowing in the painful trap of comparison—which tells me I’m not where I’m supposed to be, that I’m missing out on all the important things everyone else my age is doing—I might as well embrace the overflowing perks that come with my life exactly as it is: no kids, no one to answer to, and no one’s needs or happiness I’m responsible for (except my own).

It took a long time to realize there’s no point in fixating on where you’re not because it completely obliterates the potential to experience joy where you are—and there’s always joy where you are—if you’re willing to look for it.

If I could do anything—anything—what would I do?

I only needed to think for a moment to conclude I’d go ice skating.

The Nostalgia Factor

It’s one of my greatest memories of growing up. It began one Christmas with adjustable Wonder Woman roller skates made of plastic and metal that fit over my existing tennis shoes. My dad would walk me around the block, teaching me to push up and out, side to side—not the forward shuffle the rest of the rookies were doing.

Before long I graduated to real roller skates in the back alley where my mom taught me how to go backwards and do crossovers. We’re talking fancy stuff.

Most winters she took my brother Josh, cousin Brad, and me ice skating. Sometimes it was at an outside rink downtown in Baltimore; other times we went indoors at the Columbia Ice Rink. I smile to myself every time I think about how Josh and Brad used to go as fast as they could before hurling their bodies to the ground as though they were stealing second in game seven of the World Series.

They wore snow pants to skate. They knew they’d spend more time on the ground than on their feet, but they didn’t seem to mind all that much, as long as they got to think it was their idea to be down there.

I mostly stuck to the middle of the rink—with the serious skaters. It’s not that I myself was serious, but I loved surrounding myself with the ones who were. I’d watch them spin, jump, and twirl, and I’d do my best to imitate anything remotely skillful they did.

There’s a freedom on the ice I can’t explain—maybe because it’s a physical release and creative outlet simultaneously. Rarely does exercise lend itself to artistry the way skating does. Most activities are either/or: go for a run or paint a picture. Skating felt like a little of both.

The morning I decided to revisit the ice, I hadn’t been in years—over a decade—and yet it felt like the thing I most wanted to reconnect with, so I planned to return to Columbia Ice Rink that afternoon, excited and empowered by my ability to simply decide what I wanted to do—and go do it.

The Harsh Reality

When I arrived at the rink, I walked into what I imagine to be Hell’s waiting room: a treasure trove of middle- and high-school students, just out of class for the week, with nary a chaperone in sight.

It’s fine, I thought. It’ll still be great.

I paid my fee and received my rental skates.

They weren’t what I remembered. They looked more like clunky ski boots than figure skates.

It’s okay, I told myself. The skates don’t matter that much.

I strapped them on as best I could and headed for the ice.

It was louder, more chaotic, and more painful than I remembered, but I was determined it was going to be awesome. I was sure of it.

I took one step onto the ice and felt instant regret. The effort to remain upright was intense, the pain in my feet immediate, and the fear in my being palpable. With each forward motion, my ankles rubbed unfavorably against the inside of the boots creating instant blisters.

Just keep going, I thought.

I felt completely unstable as I rounded each curve, the blades barely gripping the ice. It was impossible in that moment to tell which was duller—the skate blades or my social life; I was, after all, alone in a throng of adolescents at a skating rink on a Friday evening.

Teenagers bobbed and weaved around me while I prayed for time to quickly pass so I could tell myself I had given it a good try. Eventually, one too many kids cut me off and I lost my balance. Suddenly, I was on the ground in an epic slide that rivaled any fall my brother’s snow pants survived decades prior.

I scrambled to get up before the fourteen-year-old safety patroller noticed me, but I was too late; he was already en route.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” he asked.

I assumed he was referring to my physical safety, so I told him I was fine.

Had I thought for a moment he was inquiring about my dignity, I would have asked him to call the paramedics. That, no doubt, needed emergency medical attention, but I suspected EMTs don’t respond to those calls, so I kept it to myself.

I did a few more laps to prove I wasn’t defeated, an unconvincing performance at best. Everything about this afternoon screamed epic fail.

Off the ice, I returned my rental skates, tended to my bleeding ankles—yes, bleeding— and walked back to my car in a disappointed daze.

What the hell just happened?

Of all the things in the world I wanted to do, that was what I picked? That was the activity I thought would bring immeasurable joy, fulfillment and happiness? Was I a masochist?

Did I misremember my childhood? Was I telling myself a nostalgic narrative in which I loved skating, but I got it all wrong? Or worse, was I great at one point and now suddenly terrible? Had I become a washed-up version of myself? Was I no longer good at things in which I once excelled?

These questions kept coming without reprieve. It’s one thing to misjudge something, but how could I have actively sought my own happiness and gotten it so wrong? No answer made sense. No answer felt good.

Back at home, I continued processing. Before long, another memory popped into my head—that of a lacrosse game my senior year against Virginia Tech. I had spent the better part of three years as a backup goalkeeper for one of the best teams in the country, and finally, as a senior, I had the starting spot. Despite the fact we were expected to easily beat the Hokies, we barely scraped by. It was one of the worst games I ever played in my life, and it made me question my position entirely. I had worked relentlessly for several years, and at the point at which it was finally supposed to pay off, it felt like I was blowing it.

Maybe I was only good as a backup. Maybe I couldn’t handle the pressure of the starting role. Maybe I overestimated my abilities. Maybe I had put in all this effort to crash and burn right before the finish line.

These soundbites played in my head in a horrifying loop while I moped around the Blacksburg locker room.

As I struggled to keep it together, I was intercepted by my teammate Tracy. Without hesitation, she took my face in both her hands, and in her matter-of-fact, Long Island manner, she said, “Chandy, look at me. It’s called a bad game; it’s not called anything else.”

Then she let me cry it out.

In that moment—one that I will remember vividly, gratefully, for the rest of my life—I chose to believe her instead of the story in my head, and a week or so later, I found myself playing one of the best games of my entire career against Duke, a win that solidified our first ever #1 ranking in the NCAA.

A Lightbulb Moment

Unfortunately, after the skating fiasco, I didn’t have Tracy Weickel by my side on the couch, but I did have a glass of wine, and I can almost swear I heard it whisper, “Chandy, it was just a bad game.”

Could that be true? I wondered. Is it possible I had an utterly terrible, isolated experience, one that might be remedied with a little effort and self-belief?

A few minutes later, I was online looking at figure skates. There is precious little more dangerous than a glass of wine and Amazon mobile app—yet scarcely anything more wonderfully powerful.

I wasn’t delusional. I knew full well there was a good chance this was an early mid-life crisis, and I mentally prepared myself for that eventuality. Nevertheless, I felt it was well worth the money to try these puppies and know for sure. The reviews were great, so I thought if I tried them and I was still terrible, at least I wouldn’t have to wonder anymore. And, in the best-case scenario, maybe I would salvage a pastime that up until that point had been priceless to me.

Two Prime-shipping days later, my skates arrived and fit perfectly. Working from home that day, I began my tasks pre-dawn so I could justify a long lunch at the skating rink. I figured if I went during their Monday open session (between 12:00 and 2:00), I was likely to avoid the middle-school crowd.

A Second Chance

Once at the rink, I carefully laced each skate and gingerly made my way to the ice. They already felt better than the rentals.

As I approached the threshold, I held my breath. Only two other people in the rink—barely any witnesses. Adele’s “Water Under the Bridge” was playing on the sound system, and it felt like I was singing to my skates by proxy.

I paused a moment and smiled at the irony of her lyrics. Then I stepped in and pushed off.

And it felt like—home, like the thing missing from my life for more than a decade. If nostalgia and freedom could have a baby, I was undoubtedly their offspring on the ice in that moment. It was one of the best hours I could recall in recent history—confirmation that all the things I thought I knew were true; I just had to give myself a chance to rediscover them.

I left that day feeling immense gratitude—for memories that shaped me and people who made me. For Wonder Woman skates gifted more than three decades prior and early life lessons taught by my parents. For ice-rink afternoons with Josh and Brad and a childhood spent at roller rinks with the neighborhood kids. For cherished friends whose belief restored my own on days it was lacking and irreplaceable teammates whose encouragement resuscitated my hope and preserved my dreams. For the hardheadedness that is my birthright and for knowing myself well enough not to give up at the first sign of defeat.

It turns out skating was the thing I most wanted and needed to do for myself; it just didn’t come as easily as I thought it would. I guess the best things rarely do.