This is probably the only photo of me ice skating. On the frog pond. Very slowly.
I think my brother is secretly a genius. Somehow he has secured my agreement to rediscover ice-skating, an activity I haven’t done since I was a dim-witted exchange student in Grenoble. This time is different, however, as I will lace up for the first time in skates that don’t have those nifty teeth at the front of the blade. It’s hockey skates we’re talking about here. I’m going to step out onto the ice, take one push off the front of my blade and skillfully perform a tooth extraction, kneecap removal, and elbow dislocation all in one fell swoop.
Images of traction now dance in my head. I think my brother is secretly trying to render me incapable of running around, armed only with a screw gun so that I can completely do a Bob Vila on the house before I take off for Africa. But it’s too late- I have agreed to partake in some unintentional junior varsity Ice Capades fun that risks major bodily injury. Why did I think at the ripe age of thirty-two that I should try out a little hockey action for myself? I’m a terrific spectator, but there is a big difference between sitting on a couch and actually skating backwards while holding a piece of warped fiberglassy wood that expects me to master an unruly slab of vulcanized rubber…
I mean really, isn’t asking to be sent to Africa for almost three years challenge enough right now?
Yesterday marked the end of any real “wickets” that I am supposed to hit prior to my big move to Dakar. No more Christmas, New Year’s or Winter Classic to contend with- just lots and lots of home improvement for the next three weeks. It should therefore come as no surprise that reality is now starting to set in, and I am no shit moving to a place where traffic lights aren’t even a suggestion- they simply don’t work. Culture shock will be cranked up to “11”.
As my stress level silently rose to a simmer yesterday, I serendipitously received a phone call from an old friend who was also a Peace Corps volunteer in West Africa. She is easily the person best-equipped to hear and allay my litany of crazy concerns: “How am I gonna drag jugs of potable water to my house?” “The Embassy still hasn’t found me a place to live!” “I started taking my Lariam (malaria medication) yesterday, and I think I am already crazy!”
And then there was the biggest existential question of them all: “Why do I keep signing up for crazy things that I think that I can actually do?”
After providing me with logical and convincing answers to all of my questions (except that last one), I calmed down and was again looking forward to my next adventure. She’s got to be right; apart from being a subject matter expert on all things West Africa, she also holds the eminent distinction of being the last person who ice-skated with me back in France. So having successfully linked ice hockey with Africa, I think that I will probably come out in relatively good shape with both challenges.
I should go to bed. My brother just walked by my door holding a rarely-seen forward stick. He looked at me, gave it a shake, and kept walking. I best go for a run in the morning, since I might not be doing it again for some time…
P.S. The answer to my blog title question actually does have an answer. I am a little crazy.