Just before Christmas, there was a commercial advertising a jewelry store that ran periodically on the tv stations that I frequent. (*cough*VH1andOxygen*cough*) I think it was for Kay Jewelers, or something. I don’t know.
It featured a man and a woman, sharing a moonlit skate on a frozen pond in the middle of a snowy forest. They slip and stumble and slid into each others arms, laughing all the while. It’s romantic, it’s magical, and it ends with jewelry. *Sigh*
Fast forward a couple weeks. Kyle mentions that the state park in which he works made a little ice rink out back of his theatre. Hmm. Oh, and did I mention that said faux-pond is tucked away in a small patch of forest? And if I meet Kyle after work, it should be right around twilight by the time we hit the ice? Ladies and gentlemen, my ticket to pure romance!
Except that there’s a problem. The jewelry commercials lied. They lied about everything.
I meet Kyle after work. I’m wearing two pairs of tights under my jeans and three shirts under my down ski coat, because it is fucking cold outside. And feeling a little like the Michelin man. We trudge through the snow out to the pond, and after shuffling awkwardly across the ice to the picnic table, we strap on twin pairs of hockey skates and hit the ice. Cue up the romance!
Except only one of us really “hit the ice.” Well, we both technically hit the ice. It’s just that Kyle hit it with his skates, and I hit it with my face. And instead of slipping into my husband’s arms, giggling and blushing and receiving necklaces all the way, it was more of a slip and skid and swear loudly and watch my husband’s ass fly across the pond. Because nature-made ponds? Are bumpy and rough and crack so that your skate falls through the ice and gets wet and curse words fall out of your mouth. And the whole time your husband, (who used to play hockey,) is skating backwards and doubled over while he cackles hysterically as you “Whoa-whoooooa-whoooa,” your way across the rough ice and flap your arms wildly in an attempt to keep your ass from re-acquainting itself with the ground. Oh, and here’s a head’s up: ice skating under the stars is not romantic. It just means you can’t see that big hole in the ice that you’ve already fallen in twice as you round the far end of the pond. And the whole time my nose is dripping continuously, I smell like damp wool, I can’t feel either my fingers or my face and my husband won’t hold hands with me because I can’t skate without swinging them wildly.
Fun? It was. Good exercise? Most definitely. Romantic?
Like farting under the sheets.