I think this whole move thing is going pretty smoothly. Or I did. Until the movers edged closer and closer to my roller skates with their boxes, wrapping papers and tape gun. Then I got a little panicky. My heart starting palpating, and my skin got cool and clammy. I didn't quite know what to do. Or why I was feeling quite so possessive about them. If they got packed up by the movers I wouldn't have them for weeks or maybe even months. What if they got lost and never saw them again? Never.
Before we moved to Morocco, I played roller derby in Colorado. Two nights a week I'd put on my skates and become my alter ego, Bad Mojo. She was a bad ass who smelled like sweat, had a foul mouth, was covered in bruises, had a bum knee and an even worse attitude. Ok, so exactly like me except she hit girls. Mojo even had a fan. My local librarian and card carrying member of the AARP. That's totally true. But the thing I loved about roller derby wasn't the skating. Or the hitting. Or my one fan. It was about being a part of something. And the women who did it with me.
So I body blocked the movers and defended my skates and helmet at the bottom of the second half. And I made some room for them in my suitcase. I don't know if I'll return to roller derby or not. Things have changed since I left. They have a banked track league now. Lots of skaters I knew and loved have hung up their skates and retired while I was gone. And now in addition to the kids schedules, I have my dance schedule to work around. So, it just wouldn't be the same. Because nothing stays the same.
Tonight I get on a plane to the states.
Skating away from being a part of Morocco.
And from the women who do it with me.
Since neither will fit in my suit case, I will simply have to carry them in my heart wherever I go.
This post is dedicated to Sara and Faith.
