The Best Advice

Last summer, I thought it would be cute if I bought myself rollerblades.  I wanted to be one of those girls gliding along the boardwalk in a sports bra, holding a boyfriend’s hand, enjoying the jealous looks my rock hard abs elicited.  It had only been twelve years since I last rollerbladed (or had a six-pack for that matter).  No problem.  Back in the day, I rocked the gear: helmet, elbow pads, kneepads, and my favorite, wrist guards.  Such a good look for me. 

I asked the guy I had been talking to if he wanted to bike alongside me when I broke out the blades for the first time.  (And what turned out to be the only time.)  Five minutes in to our romantic afternoon together, he had to park his bike in order to hold me up and pull me down the path.  Turns out the phrase, “it’s just like riding a bike,” doesn’t apply to rollerblading.  I couldn’t gain any speed and as soon as I did, I couldn’t stop myself.  Balance was questionable and in my sweats and oversized shirt, I definitely would not have fit in with the sexy rollerblading crew that was my original inspiration. 

After a bit, I got cocky and was sure I could proceed on my own.  The boy walked on ahead, not watching as I took on a decline so tiny, it wouldn’t even be logical to a city planner to add a drain at the bottom.  I gained an insignificant amount of speed, shouted, “I’m going down,” and threw myself onto the ground.  I spun off the path, slammed into a wire fence, and came to rest in a nice warm pile of dirt.  So upset I scratched my new wrist guards, I refused to get up.  Obviously watching the whole thing, a man walking his dog, without even stopping, said to me, “If it makes you feel better, my dog really enjoyed that.”  The boy stuck out his hand to help me up but I smacked it away.  I ignored his pleas to get off the ground and the fact that he was getting embarrassed.  While I remained on my back, still laughing hysterically, a man in a wheelchair rolled up.  “You know, when you fall down, you have to pick yourself right back up.”

Shower, For Two

Scene: Twenty-something boy engaged in a deep kiss with a twenty-something girl.  He has her pressed up against the wall as he strips her shirt off.  She unbuttons his pants; he tosses her shirt across the room: the final piece of the trail leading from her bedroom to the shower.  The steam from the water fogs the glass shower doors.  The boy runs his fingers through the girl’s wet hair, down her silky smooth chest, and well, you know the rest.  Unfortunately, my first and only shower experience was nothing like this.

            In a college town, it’s inevitable that you’ll start superficial friendships with people simply from having similar bar schedules.  I had just such a relationship with a really attractive and conveniently Jewish frat boy.  I loved seeing him out, mostly because when he acknowledged me, I felt like it didn’t matter I was in the sorority informally known as Dogs, Pigs, and Elephants.  I made him my mission and to this day, I do not know, and think it wise not to question, how I pulled it off.

The night I conquered him, back at my house (after picking up a friend of his on the street for my roommate), it began.  Making out on my bed, he attempted to remove my pants though I repeatedly asked him not to.  He succeeded and was then shocked when I did not seem to enjoy whatever it was he thought he was doing so well.  Naturally, he then suggested we take a shower; a clear backup plan because if I don’t want my pants off in the privacy of my room, obviously I will be totally willing to skip on over totally naked to the bathroom that I share with three other girls and try again there.  Call me old fashioned, but standing naked in harsh bathroom lights soaking wet (with water) is not really a one-night stand kind of endeavor.  Wanting to get him out of my room, I weakly agreed.  I didn’t really think that one through.

I hate being naked when I’m alone; I won’t even look at myself in the mirror before a shower, so the sudden and ominous enterprise of nakedness with another person was less than appealing.  I threw a towel on and only agreed to get in the shower once the lights had been turned off.  With the door closed and lights off, the bathroom was pitch black.  Perfect. 

After feeling my way into the shower, he insinuated that I “give him a hand.”  Uncomfortable and slippery, I flipped my wrist back and forth, unable to get a grip that was useful to him but would not result in carpal tunnel syndrome for me.  Still playing the seduction game, hoping to get something out of this, he stepped under the showerhead.  Leaning his head back under the running water, he ran his fingers through his hair.  Holding back laughter, not turned on, and slightly confused as to what my next step should be, I could think of only one logical question: “Do you want soap?”

He didn’t ask for my number.