Were we really supposed to walk on these spiky lengths of steel?

IT had been years since I’d last gone ice skating. Decades, actually. Back in the day, I’d loved it. Loved the feeling of gliding across the ice, being in control, knowing just how to maneuver to turn corners and do crossovers.

And then I’d gotten married, moved away, had children, then grandchildren. Ice skating was, well, put on ice. But now I was back in my home country for a visit, my 12-year-old daughter with me. It was winter, we wanted to do something indoors, and I decided to treat her to an ice-skating session, secretly thrilled at treating myself, too.

We booked tickets and arrived at the rink. Once we were both wearing our skates, we started hobbling unsteadily together toward the ice. Hey, were we really supposed to walk on these spiky lengths of steel? How on earth were we to keep our balance? You’re out of practice, I told myself as I flailed about helplessly. Takes time to get used to it again.