No Broken Bones for Bedtime

Missed the edge, wheels over instead of locked in, both feet to follow. Maybe get a foot or a hand down, nope, bodied. Moaning, gasping for air, momentarily convinced something is seriously wrong, might not breathe ever again. Okay, maybe overly dramatic for a second there, breathing is back, wrist and ribs don’t seem broken. 

It’s been a while since you’ve slammed like this. A split-second reminder of how quickly things can change. Mid-thirties skating is much closer to ground level than it used to be, but yet here you are, lying under an overpass by yourself, questioning if you need to go to the hospital. 

Can you drive home? Yeah, but if you couldn’t, what would you do? Call your wife, wake her up, it’s only 9:30, but then she’d have to get out of bed, wake your kid, put him in the car seat, and come find your dumb ass. 

Is all this worth it for a ten-inch grind? 

Younger, you wouldn’t have questioned it. Probably would have kept skating to prove the stupid trick wrong. Current you is facing one of many new reality checks, limping to the car, thinking about your family.  

Maybe you should step down from benches to curbs. Don’t kid yourself; you’ll find a way to eat shit on those too. Maybe find some friends to skate with at night, yeah, but then you’d have to talk in between tries. Maybe get one of those emergency buttons like old people wear. 

Add this one to the list of parenting skills and check the box; still figuring it out. 

Until then, keep wrestling pavement in the dark. Last match was a draw.