Better late than never!

He lurched along the sidewalk like Frankenstein's monster.
Frankenstein's monster on inline skates, that is.

They were black, with purple and green laces.
Purple and green.
Wimbledon colors.

How 'bout that.

I gaze at the skates wonderingly: if I'd gotten a pair for myself when they'd first come out, when they were all the rage, about fifteen years ago, I know chances are high I would have gotten something very similar for myself.

I mean, come on! Wimbledon colors?! ~plus~ black??!!

I smile to myself, happy at the coincidence -- if you want to call it that -- that Elm so long ago would have picked a pair of rollerblades that please my eye, now, over fifteen years later.

I also am aware of this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. A regret of sorts, or a memory of a regret, perhaps. I recall drooling over and coveting rollerblades when they were all the rage, that summer a decade and a half ago, that summer I stayed in the US to take summer classes, which prompted my parents to visit me since I wasn't going back "home" halfway around the world for once.

I think I was turning 21 that summer.

"What do you want for your birthday?"

"That," I say, pointing to one of many passing rollerbladers.

"Oh." "Isn't that dangerous?"

I'd like to think I protested, or at least pointed out the safety gear many 'bladers were wearing. I'd like to think I was able to do more than immediately be defeated by her reluctance, her disapproval. Chances are, however, that none of that happened. She didn't like the idea, so I didn't push it.

(I also vaguely remember talking about getting one of those mini-fridges to have in my room, so that I could have my drinks cold and theft-free, instead of storing them on my assigned shelf in the common fridge downstairs, at the mercy of unscrupulous fellow lodgers. Again with the reluctance.)

I have no idea what, if anything, I did choose/get that year.

I do know that I could have gotten a pair of rollerblades for myself at any time.
But I didn't.

And so as I accompanied Elm on foot as he skated down the street a few days ago, I wondered what it was about Willow-that-was that had her so ... captive ... to her mother's wishes that she was content -- for lack of a better word -- to continue observing rollerbladers with a muted longing, but never making that move to get a pair for herself.

I'd been defeated a long time ago.

I remember being complimented by my tennis coach, him recommending that I join a few other of his students to play friendly matches against other kids from other clubs. I so wanted to. But. Never did I ever bring this possibility up with my parents. Never ever.

Why not?

I look back and see someone who lived totally in her head, overthinking scenarios into defeatist endings and concluding somehow that that was the probable outcome therefore no use even trying anything.

My blood no longer boils at the memory of Willow-who-was, and how she came to be.
Instead, I am sad more than anything else.

How I wish I could go to her now, eleven-year-old Willow-that-was, and tell her to believe in herself, that she is capable of so many great things, just as she knows deep inside yet can't bring herself to believe because of all the programming, the put-downs, the dare-I-say-it mental abuse she had suffered -- and would continue to suffer -- at the hands of her mother, she who should have known better, she who now is reaping what she sowed, she who is all hurt and confused at the bitter fruits available to her today.

Don't define yourself by your mother's approval, or lack thereof.

Ten words that would have made a huge difference to me back then.
Back in college.
Back in high school.
Heck, back as far as I can remember.

Oh well.

I'm all better now.
Better-er, anyway.

And I've decided: (once Elm and I get to a better financial situation) I'mma gettin' me a pair o' them rollerblades!

Better late than never.

[image credit: Inline skate by saso]