Skating on thin ice
That was a crazy weekend! Went ice-skating with A. at Kansas City. Having heard fearful stories from past participants about falling on ice and breaking bones and other fragile protuberances, I was nervous about the whole thing. Thoughts of my encounter with the vicious bone-fracture fairy from summer kept running through my mind. First of all, those shoes - these are not simple slip-it-on-and-velcro-it-up equipment, but foot-encasing boots with half a mile of lace to tie up. I got a good look at the half-inch-wide blades on the shoes and mentally imagined tooth-surgery with it a la Tom Hanks in 'Castaway' - not a pleasant thought.
Literally walking on the edge, I reached the rink. Walking on those blades is surprisingly easy. Standing up on them on ice, however, isn't. I started out by holding on to the perimeter railing and slowly circumambulating the rink like a nonagenarian en route to the restroom. A nice lady skated past and challenged, "Get on to the middle of the rink!". The trick of skating on ice is to walk like a duck. Of course, we've all seen how ducks walk... no we haven't. The closest recollection of a walking duck I have is Daffy wagging his feathery finger and lisping horribly.
After a couple of crunchy landings on my bony ass, A.'s friends decided to lend me a hand... make that two. With A.'s CC friend S. on on hand and her german conversation partner on the other, I proceeded to be lugged around the rink a couple of times. In normal circumstances, having two beautiful girls holding on to my arms on either side would have been a matter of immense pride and gloating. This time, pride was the farthest thing on my mind as I emulated a limp straw puppet being dragged around in circles. I eventually learned not to hold on to the side railings. In a couple of hours, I was skating with confidence, only occasionally inspecting the ice in a horizontal fashion. Except for a sore knee from when I landed on it after a triple-toe-axle, I retired from the rink, in a state of pleasant well-being.
What could top off a tiring excursion to the rink than reclaiming those precious calories in a suitably grease-molecule filled atmosphere? We chose the most American of all possible food-joints, a Denny's diner. After an hour of waiting, we were finally treated to a fine set of pancakes. Good conversation around the table, with A.'s friend S. recounting his mother's dubious jewish ancestry and A. herself confessing indubitable hickishness from her mom's side. I wisely stayed away from my own genealogy, since I have no idea about it except for a kumkum reddened photo of my great-granddad who was a transport business owner. Hardly thorough or impressive, when compared to the American penchant for knowing one's genealogy.
Why don't Indians keep track of their ancestors? Of course, I could always claim that castes are a kind of ancestry, and that my forebear was the one-and-only Naidu McNaidu. But what about records, oral tradition, and other such evidence? Seeing how much importance we give to our elders and ancestors in general(yearly thivasams etc.), I would've expected a more detailed account of my great-great-grandfolks from my mom or grandma. Maybe it is time I started calling myself Dev2r, son of Dev2r Sr., son of Dev2r SrSr. and so on. Heck, the Welsh have it, and even Gimli, the son of Gloin does it!
Literally walking on the edge, I reached the rink. Walking on those blades is surprisingly easy. Standing up on them on ice, however, isn't. I started out by holding on to the perimeter railing and slowly circumambulating the rink like a nonagenarian en route to the restroom. A nice lady skated past and challenged, "Get on to the middle of the rink!". The trick of skating on ice is to walk like a duck. Of course, we've all seen how ducks walk... no we haven't. The closest recollection of a walking duck I have is Daffy wagging his feathery finger and lisping horribly.
After a couple of crunchy landings on my bony ass, A.'s friends decided to lend me a hand... make that two. With A.'s CC friend S. on on hand and her german conversation partner on the other, I proceeded to be lugged around the rink a couple of times. In normal circumstances, having two beautiful girls holding on to my arms on either side would have been a matter of immense pride and gloating. This time, pride was the farthest thing on my mind as I emulated a limp straw puppet being dragged around in circles. I eventually learned not to hold on to the side railings. In a couple of hours, I was skating with confidence, only occasionally inspecting the ice in a horizontal fashion. Except for a sore knee from when I landed on it after a triple-toe-axle, I retired from the rink, in a state of pleasant well-being.
What could top off a tiring excursion to the rink than reclaiming those precious calories in a suitably grease-molecule filled atmosphere? We chose the most American of all possible food-joints, a Denny's diner. After an hour of waiting, we were finally treated to a fine set of pancakes. Good conversation around the table, with A.'s friend S. recounting his mother's dubious jewish ancestry and A. herself confessing indubitable hickishness from her mom's side. I wisely stayed away from my own genealogy, since I have no idea about it except for a kumkum reddened photo of my great-granddad who was a transport business owner. Hardly thorough or impressive, when compared to the American penchant for knowing one's genealogy.
Why don't Indians keep track of their ancestors? Of course, I could always claim that castes are a kind of ancestry, and that my forebear was the one-and-only Naidu McNaidu. But what about records, oral tradition, and other such evidence? Seeing how much importance we give to our elders and ancestors in general(yearly thivasams etc.), I would've expected a more detailed account of my great-great-grandfolks from my mom or grandma. Maybe it is time I started calling myself Dev2r, son of Dev2r Sr., son of Dev2r SrSr. and so on. Heck, the Welsh have it, and even Gimli, the son of Gloin does it!
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