Scrooge

Last week, a friend and I went to the holiday ice skating show put on by our local skating club.  The show included skaters aged from approximately four to seventy, featured a dazzling array of costumes, props, and musical numbers, and mostly served to drive home one fact to me: I'm a real bitch.


I realized my bitchiness early on -- during the first number, in fact -- as I watched a small group of pre-teens in tiny shorts and tight shirts (many made even tighter due to the owner having pinned the shirt in back).  As the sub-adults strutted around the ice, elaborately stretching and bending as they pretended to be warming up for the show-within-a-show that was the show, I found myself becoming irrationally irritated with them.  So much so, in fact, that when any of them inevitably slipped during her single-axle spin and landed on her barely-clad derriere, whilst the rest of the crowed "oohed" in sympathy, I found that I had to restrain myself from clapping with glee.

I'm not sure why I reacted this way.  Perhaps I'm just officially a Grumpy Old Adult.  Maybe I'm jealous because a twelve-year-old can pull off a pair of Daisy Dukes, whereas I can't (and never could).  Possibly the girls' apparent wish to hog the limelight reminds me of the fact that I used to be the exact same way.  And, OK, I still am . . . but to a lesser extent . . . since a group of fellow pre-teens bullied much of the show-offness out of me and I spent most of my teen years and early-twenties sunk into the depths of despair that come from having low self-confidence.

So, maybe I disliked those ice-skating preteens because I was jealous of their confidence.  Or maybe teenagers just worry me because I'm intimidated by them.

Be that as it may, when one of their fluffy, shallow, show-offy group fell from grace, I viewed it as a personal victory.

All of this, I realize, is absolutely ridiculous.  And petty.  And it proves to me -- yet again -- that I still have a lot of growing up to do.  It's pathetic that I allow myself to entertain such low thoughts about a fellow human being.

Great.  Now I have guilt and self-loathing, and will spend the rest of the week wallowing in hatred.  Happy frickin' holidays, and thank you, little pre-teens.



OK, to prove that I can actually be nice, I will move on to what I liked about the show.

I liked when the adults arrived on the ice, because I didn't have to worry as much about feeling bad if any of them fell.

I liked watching the little boys skate because then I could briefly forget about how cold my toes were as I concentrated on determining who would grow up to be gay.

I liked when the tiniest skaters came out.  One in particular spent the entire two minutes of her group's song carefully plodding up the ice.  She almost managed to make it to center ice before her group-mates had finished their routine and returned to the dressing rooms.  A coach had to skate out and retrieve the little one, while the audience laughed so hard we cried and then missed the first fifteen seconds of the following pre-teenager's act (bonus!).
PS - this also proves what I said many years ago: the littlest ballerina always gets the most applause.

I liked entertaining the thought that I could probably skate better than some of these people.
(Then I remembered all the times I've toppled off my bike.  When it wasn't even moving.  But still.)

I liked realizing that it really didn't matter if you were a better skater than your teammate: you just had to have better hair.

And, although it absolutely pains me to admit it publicly, I really did like the spectacle and talent that made up the very-entertaining show.

 So, Santa, is that enough to put me back on your 'nice' list?