I went to a figure skating show on Saturday afternoon.
I know.
I had to.
It was a fundraiser for the women's shelter, and everyone on the board pitched in to sell tickets, direct people to hot dogs and hot chocolate, etc. It actually turned out to be a fantastic event, and despite having to sit on a freezing cold, cement bleacher for three hours, it was a lovely day.
My favourite act of the entire show was the group of 12 and under kids. There were roughly 20 of them, decked out in bright yellow outfits, shaky on their tiny skates, arms spread wide for the balance they hadn't yet mastered. At one point, one of the taller girls in the group, lanky with long, stringy brown hair and glasses, tripped over her own skate, and went crashing to a cruel fall on the ice floor. The girl performing beside her, stopped dead in her tracks (which didn't appear to be an easy feat in and of itself) and reached out a hand to her fallen comrade. Oblivious to the fact that the routine was carrying on without her, this girl's sole concern was helping her friend safely to her feet. It was the best part of the show.
That evening, I went to a going-away party for one of my closest, childhood friends. We ended up making the trek to St. Laurent, to wait outside in the bitter, freezing cold, to get into Rouge. When we finally got the coveted nod from the sombre bouncer, standing, arms crossed, expression firm, we made our way inside. I'll skip over the details of the evening (the place is red inside), but what struck me was the washroom system. They were set up so people waiting in line could peer in and watch you washing your hands, sucking in your cheeks, or fluffing your hair, but this wasn't terribly surprising. What was remarkable, though it perhaps shouldn't have been, was the fact that people literally trampled over one another, jockeying for position in front of a mirror. Stepping on toes, slamming into shoulders, making no eye contact, the mission was the mirror, and nothing else mattered.
As I made my way out into the cold Montreal night after our evening, and my friends and I piled into a cab, I started to think; when did we stop holding out hands, and start crushing them instead? When was the moment where we decided, that when someone was falling, we wouldn't provide a safety net, but rather, we'd move out of the way to give them ample room to land alone?
Sometimes, I think we, with our grown-up faces and our grown-up pink drinks, our perfume, our busy, self-consumed days and nights and in-betweens, could stand to learn an awful lot from a seven-year-old girl, shaky, unsteady and uncertain, on a pair of figure skates.
7 comments:
We're lucky to have found soo many 7 year old girls living in 30ish year old bodies with 100 year old souls who won't ever let you fall alone.
Besides, who would ever want to be friends with the bitches at the sink anyway?
...then again, you were at Rouge -- I'd prefer waiting in line at a figure skating show.
Walters - amen, sister. I feel seven sometimes. Have you SEEN the way I eat ice cream :)
Husk - thank you. Sometimes I feel like the only person on the planet who cannot fathom the logic behind waiting outside in the cold, to get into some snotty, ridiculously pretentious bar.
Yeah, there's no shortage of bars/clubs/lounges/pubs in Montreal... f*ck that line-up, cross the street.
I don't know, I've always thought many women were sort of mean and nasty, even as a child, dealing with other girls-you know the kind that dot their i's with hearts and have bubble writing? I bet that little girl who stopped and helped her friend is an exception rather than the rule.
I suspect it's what happens when you train girls from birth to never directly express a negative emotion, or any strong emotion at all. Don't frown, don't yell, don't get dirty, don't get angry, don't hog the cheesecake, etc. etc. Then tell them that femininity is a competitive sport, put them on a life-long starvation diet, and voilà, you've created a bitch who will step over dead bodies to get a spot at the mirror. It's hardly a surprise, really.
Aw, that's sweet. Well, maybe bittersweet. I think it happened when we were the fallen girl with no one holding out their hand.
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