Don’t Roller Skate When Tired

One value that’s particularly important to me is respecting women. Sometimes, I respect women so much that I just try and stay out of their way. But, when I am around women, I make sure to keep the conversations intelligent, centered on the women as much as possible, and my eyes are always above the neckline.

In middle and high school, my church would regularly rent out the local skating rink for teenage-hormone-safe roller skating opportunities. I had been to various skating activities before, but usually never tried to pair off with a girl: I usually just tried to skate around and buy and consume copious volumes of sugar. Thinking back on it, I’m sure that the proprietors got most of their profits from the concession sales, but that’s beside the point.

Well, one year I was feeling courageous enough to pair off with “Charity,” a nice girl from a neighboring ward, who also attended my school. I knew this girl to be very intelligent, and intimidatingly cute. I mustered all my courage to ask her if we could skate together, and thankfully, she consented.

I had a blissful time skating around the rink with Charity, geeking out about various science and pop culture topics that interested us.

In the process of skating around with Charity, I didn’t purchase any sugar--her attention was giving me enough endorphins that I did not need a saccharine substitute. As we continued to skate, my enjoyment of her company masked the fact that my blood sugar levels were plummeting. Apparently, like most mortals, I need sugar to continue skating for long periods of time. I never quite realized this fact while at the rink; I can only tell you this fact upon reflection.

As we rounded one corner on about our 20th lap, I suddenly collapsed. Not wanting to permanently disfigure my nose, I reached out with my left hand to grab onto something to keep me from falling. Unfortunately, what I grabbed was rather soft and fleshy—definitely not firm enough to keep me from falling. I had grabbed onto her breast and clamped my hand in a fist in a futile attempt to regain my balance. As my grasping reflex took over, I realized my precarious situation, and—after what seemed like an eternity envisioning her slapping me for my faux pas—my butt hit the floor. My anxiety was compounded by the fact that my left hand enjoyed what it felt while my mind just couldn’t accept that feeling. I respect women, I respect women, I respect women. But, I was stuck in a conflict of character. I like to believe that my mind won out, even though I can’t forget that night.

Thankfully I did not mar my beautiful nose on the floor. And, gratefully, she did not take my hand placement as an affront to her dignity or modesty. Although she accepted my apology, I could not look her in the face for the rest of the evening, and I probably still can’t.