Co-ed skating parties were the obvious love child of awkwardness and the discovery of the opposite sex. Moms allowed the parties because it reminded them of their own pre-adolescence and we approved because of the couples-only skate in which boys and girls could hold hands to a Whitney Houston tune under a romantic disco ball light. However, only the most popular 5th graders, who wore the right shoes with their school uniforms and possessed the rare, untraceable scent of “popular kid” would receive an elusive invitation.
Unfortunately, along with dating came angst of the early pre-adolescent kind, which in its nascent form is all the more painful because it is new and unexpected. Ungainly long limbs, breast buds, and hormones should not accompany anyone’s first hesitant dip into the dating pool. We girls covered budding acne with body glitter in hopes of being noticed by boys who, to mask youthful exuberance and puberty, had recently begun to employ a macho façade of wide strides and disinterest.
I use the term “we” loosely. I was less skilled than the other fifth graders at hiding my awkwardness, despite well-intentioned applications of both body glitter and metallic lip gloss, so, for a while, was not invited to the parties. I would go into class in the morning to find people whispering in the back row about the awesome (!) party on the upcoming Friday. I practiced pretending not to care—if my stomach would drop, my face would not. Instead, I became proactive in protesting the rush into puberty. At recess I circulated a petition against kissing behind the chapel and got the signatures mostly of those who were not being kissed behind the chapel.
The parties were less posh than say, a royal banquet, but still offered many opportunities to make oneself the jester. First, outfit. Butterfly clips or choker? I would choose both, usually scaring off any potential couples’ skate partners before I walked through the door. Then, entrance. Try to meet with three other friends in fledging adaptions of the female archetypes of Sexy, Stupid, Smart, and Funny. Link arms, giggle, and walk into rink area, looking anywhere but at boys. If friends are unavailable, walk in with shoulders back, thinking something funny to oneself, and try to look self satisfied. Next, couples’ skate. If asked to skate, wipe hands off on jeans and make stilted conversation with pimply boy for length of “I Will Always Love You.” If not asked, sit on side-lines with quarters and play Mrs. Pak-Man for the rest of the night pretending not to feel rejected.
Last, dinner. The most precarious of all situations. Pepperoni or cheese pizza? Take the last slice that Miss Future Prom Queen would want and face shunning from her and all of her minions for the rest of the night. Should the pizza be folded length-wise, cut with a fork, or eaten held above head and dripped into mouth? Be careful. I chose incorrectly once and wound up with a glob of grease on my t-shirt and was officially banished to the gallows for the rest of the night.
I wish I could say that I found a great love of roller skating, outgrew body glitter, or made a new friend as a result of my fifth grade obsession with being invited and acting cool at skating parties. But I can’t say that I did. Instead, skating parties were my initiation into a new, constantly changing system of social hierarchy that everyone has to deal with all their lives. Perhaps we become a little less awkward, perhaps we stop caring if we’re the most popular person in the room. But most of the time if we’re ignored, a little bit of that chubby, unpopular fifth grader will reappear to open the mailbox and find nothing there.