Summer 1996 (?)
For Christmas, my parents gave me a pair of interchangeable rollerblades. Totally cool. The bottoms of the rollerblades could be changed from ice skates, to trick skis, or to the traditional wheels for rollerblading.
My childhood best friend, Kari, and I decided to go to the top of my neighborhood’s hill so that I could rollerblade down. Kari was rollerblade-less and held my dog, Daisy, by the leash as I attempted to ascend and descend the hill. As a kid, everything appears to be bigger than it actually is, so I imagined the hill to be a mountain.
I was ready to rocket down that hill. Kari and Daisy watched as I began my descent. Halfway down the hill, I felt something funny under one of my feet. I looked down. The wheels were gone on one of my skates.
In less than a second, I thought to myself, “Just put your foot down and prepare for landing.”
Crash. Topple. Skip. Scrape. I had survived! I stood up. Kari and Daisy darted toward me. Not one tear dropped out of my eyes.
I hobbled up my driveway. My mom came rushing out. She took those skates and immediately threw them in the trash.
Totally cool? No. Totally killer.