Back To Your Regularly Scheduled Derptimes

Uh, so today, I skated a full practice for the first time since October.

Without pain.

Lucille Ball FTW.

We did a lot of plow stopping, which I ain’t got no aptitude for, but I’m improving. We also did a lot of stepping through worms, and I felt pretty confident about that. Oh, and heat-molding the front outside quarter of my right boot with my hair dryer appears to have worked, because while I could still feel the grumpy spot, it didn’t pwn me.


None of today’s happiness would have happened without the help of my fabulous PT (JILL LET ME LOVE YOU), my fabulous derby wife, and my fabulous teammates. Yall believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself, and let me do off-skate shit at your practices, and let me skate around on the outside even though I was in your way during drills, and gave me generous and helpful recovery tips…

You the best, guise. Thank you.


‘Til Death Or A Trip To The Box Do Us Part

So I asked my fellow Shire-rocker, Laurie, if she wanted to be derby wives. I did so using this video, because Brak = baller.

She said “yes!”


Laurie is the cat’s pajamas. She’s smart, and funny, and hot, and has totally boss tattoos, and hits the snot out of people. She’s super encouraging, too. Back in May, when I was all “blee blee bloo bloo I’m too much of a loser to do Bacon, they’ll be all ‘damn she sucks,'” Laurie told me to STFU and sign up. Then she gave me a ride to and from every.single.practice and continued to do so after Bacon ended and I joined PFM. She’s given me a lift to nearly every practice I’ve been to since June. Sometimes, there are morale-building dance parties in the car.

we got the moooooooooves like jagger...

When I was debating whether or not to join PFM Core, Laurie convinced me that I could do it. When I was hoping to get in shape for December Rat tryouts, Laurie said she wanted the same thing and agreed to be workout buddies. When we each got injured and ended up in physical therapy, we dragged out our yoga mats and did our PT together. She introduced me to Groupon. I introduced her to white coffee. We suffered through a core yoga class. We spent hours at A Muddy Cup laughing and listening after dancing around like doofuses at Zumba every Tuesday. (See previous gif for visual aid, but add derp.)

As is probably obvious by now, I can’t imagine derby without Laurie. She rocks. I’m lucky. I can’t wait to see what we accomplish next.

When Life Becomes A RuPaul Song



I went to practice last night and skated around the outside.

For fifty minutes.

Fast. Ish.

Without pain.!Yay.gif

Two even weirder things happened:

1) I can now, magically, plow stop. It takes forever, but I can tilt my plates, get my inside wheels to slide, and hold them there until I come to a complete stop.

2) I can now, magically, feel my left foot pulling through my crossovers all the way to the left front wheel.

I’m baffled, ’cause I don’t see how “put a dent in your couch” equals “skate more better.” I’m not about to turn it down, though!

Tomorrow, there will be PFM Core scrimmage. I get to be the Volunteer Coordinator! When you add in that today I got a shiny new set of Smith Scabs and a Pivot Star hoodie from Fast Girl, AND that I got to see Liz win the breakdance challenge while I was there, AND that I got to chill at a coffeehouse with her and Arkham and write, I think I’d better warn you:


Tiny Update, With Rainbows

I practiced a little bit on Saturday. The good news: I was able to skate for an hour, and I did transition drills, and toestop starts, and skated laps around the outside, and my shins didn’t hurt. At all.

The (bad? not as good?) news: my right hip did. Like, to the point that I wasn’t stable, so I stopped skating.

But! I am, perhaps stupidly, optimistic that I am at least changing my body’s muscle recruitment patterns, and that I will keep working through the kinks (lol I said “kinks”) until I’m able to skate full practices again.


*runs away, giggling*

Drunken Sailors For Fun And Profit

So me and Laurie tromped all over Seattle yesterday. We went to yoga, where we were the Merry and Pippin to a roomful of Legolases and Aragorns:

And then we went and got coffee, because we’re even moar awesome with drugs, and then we went skating. We practiced the moves Trino taught us in the middle, like-a so:

There was “Gagnam Style.” I deny everything.

This is how my shins felt about skating:

But this is how the rest of me felt:

So it was great!

Things I want to remember from yesterday that gave me a sense of having accomplished something other than “rampant suck”:

–I did drunken sailors to “Moves Like Jagger.” For fun. Time was, I couldn’t even practice them, ’cause that level of balance was beyond me.
–I practiced right-foot-leading skating to the side. For fun. That’s my derpy direction. ‘Nuff said.
–I learned that I can, in fact, execute a hockey stop, if it is the only thing that will keep me from slamming into a small and spindly child. Note to self: henceforth, pretend cones are children. Ignore the weird looks when you drop them off at daycare.

Keeping Score

Welp, I’m still off skates. I NSOed at our scrimmage on Saturday (scorekeeper for the Red Team). My leaguemates were out there all

and I was at the NSO table staring at my ref like my life depended on it, except between jams, when I was all

Le sigh.

NSOing is cool, though. Learned a lot, got to be useful, met excellent refs and NSOs: a victory for Upfish, as Brad Neely would say. Also, my peeps are improving at hitting, ’cause that scrimmage was bersekaheimer. I saw one skater get hit, fall, spin out, and crash into the wall at Turn Four. Twice. Another smashed into the barrier under the NSO table. Is every scrimmage like that, or do I not notice because I’m in it?

After the scrimmage, I was lucky enough to talk with another leaguemate NSO who’s injured, and wise, and a badass. We commiserated about being hamstrung (figuratively), and she had some great advice about being patient with myself and accepting the pace of my recovery. I’m very grateful for her validation. ❤

So that was Saturday. Sunday, I embraced the crapful place I was in; I watched Champs from my couch and ate a lot of deep-fried shit. If you want to know what rock bottom tastes like, it’s batter-dipped deep-fried mac and cheese balls, chocolate chip pumpkin bread, and beer. My subconscious wants me to weigh as much as my self-hatred, maybe?

I’ve been freaking out about losing my hard-earned derby fitness, and my inflating waistline, and my imperfect adherence to my PT/taping regimen, and my crap nutrition choices, and feeling that I’m letting my teammates down by doing so poorly, and hating myself pretty hard for all of it, which has only increased the shitstupidity of my choices, which has kept the cycle going, and… bleargh. There really is something magical about accepting the suck, though, because I woke up Different this morning. I went from being all

to feeling a big ol’ dose of

It’s a process. I’ve fucked up. I’ll fuck up again. But that’s fine: the important thing, in some ways the only important thing, is that I keep going. However imperfectly. However deep-fried. Just keep going.

Multiple Stages: They’re Not Just For Bumbershoot

Dear Body,

I know I’ve mentioned this before, but dude. Dude. We are supposed to be a team. I’m supposed to come up with stuff to do and make sure that it’s reasonably safe for you, and then you’re supposed to do it.

I know we’ve had our differences (for instance, you don’t seem to think that I need to inhale, and I don’t seem to think that you need any fuel but bacon and drip coffee), but we did okay for a while there. I got you asthma meds, you got me eating quinoa and (ugh) vegetables and skating regularly, and we found our groove. That was nice.

Lately, though, our system has fallen apart. I skate, you hurt. I skate slower, you hurt. I skate at.all., you hurt. Which kinda kills my motivation to skate, which makes me feel like I am falling into a bottomless pit and dying of starvation.

Look, Body, I got you insoles. Then I got you inserts to supplement your insoles. Then I added in PT to help you, literally, find your own ass without both hands and a flashlight. (You’re not so good at gluteus medius recruitment, it turns out.) I haven’t been perfect keeping up with our exercises, but I haven’t been wretched, either. And you know what? Skating still hurts so much that I’m not doing it right now.

Which means GRIEF, which means FIVE STAGES MUTHATRUCKAH.

We’ve well tackled denial:


I think, though, Body, that I may still be harboring a teeny tiny bit of anger towards you. To wit:


I know, I know. It’s not your fault that we were born with janky hip/femur connections. Still: you bastard. You utter, utter bastard. >.<

Apparently, we can experience the stages simultaneously and/or intermittently, so we may be due for some bargaining. I don’t see what the point of bargaining would be, though, because if you can’t skate


But you can’t skate. Hence the stage with the dee-pression:


I’ve been feeling that one since June when this whole business started. Also the anger. The anger and the depression, I’ve got those down. *fistpump*

Thing is, though, writing to you about my disappointment and frustration has been therapeutic. I feel some acceptance coming on:


Which is NOT MELODRAMATIC of me. Not at ALL.

It’s okay, Body. We’re stuck together. I get that. It’s like a marriage we were contracted into before either of us were born, which, now I think about it, doesn’t sound strictly ethical. But here we are, and here we will be, and I’d really like it if we could get along on skates. Think it over, would you?


Your Derby-Dreaming Mind

PS: I’ll eat more quinoa. Promise.

PPS: I’m not giving up the bacon, though.

PPPS: Or the caffeine.

PPPPS: *sigh* Fine. I’ll give up the bacon. Just know that if it’s you or caffeine, baby, I am gonna choose caffeine every time.