Geriatric

Deciding that waiting an hour and a half to go bowling was out of the question, we retreated from the haze of cigarette smoke and back to a white hatchback with fogged windows.

"We could go skating..." I suggested. I'm not sure why. I hate skating like the plague, but the promise of a truly Canadian pasttime minus the beating each other up part seemed to pique the others' interests.

Half an hour wandering the bowels of Burnaby finally landed us at 8 Rinks, after trying a couple other rinks that strangely enough didn't have Friday night drop in skating. The rink was surprisingly not as busy as we had expected it to be, and the crowd was decidedly our age and really good at skating.

After my effortless display of how retarded I look on skates, my friends took pity upon me and hooked me up with a walker, one of those things they give to little kids to help them keep their balance. From then on, I was the token senior citizen on the ice, which led to much silliness all around.

From then on, that walker and I were inseparable. Walker, I love you. You make me feel invincible.

All talk of courgardom aside, I kind of think it would be cool to be old and hot and unhinged. It seems strange, I guess that I seem to be waiting for old age to bring me some sort of liberation, but if you consider the fact that for a goodly-sized portion of last year there was quite a large faction in my brain that was a touch suicidal, I'd say we've made some improvements. I don't have to die, I just have to get old so one day people can excuse me for my weirdness, and maybe then I'll be cool and pretty and liked.

Until then I'll just be me.