Just after the holidays my wife and I took the kids to a birthday party at one of the local roller rinks. I won’t say which one as I’m keenly aware of the vast reach of these articles and the sway I hold over the hordes of locals hanging on my every word. With great power comes great responsibility. It also has no bearing on the story itself so stop worrying about it.

When I say that the wife and I took the kids to a birthday party at the rink you probably assumed that we were accompanying the children to an event for one of their peers. In fact, they were accompanying us to a birthday party for one of our old friends. I say “accompanying” but I’m really saying they were being forced to come with us and I say “old” but I’m really saying … wait. No, I really mean old, as in, our friend is old. We’re old too, relatively speaking. And by relatively speaking I’m really saying that showing up at a roller rink at anywhere near my age makes you look, and feel, elderly and feeble. Let’s face it, roller skating is a young person’s game and stepping onto the wooden rink is to stare one’s own mortality in the face.

What’s most remarkable to me about roller rinks is the absence of acknowledgement that what you’re about to undertake is super dangerous. How has this activity managed to escape the safety culture that puts warning labels on just about everything? All our vitamin jars come with the little freshness packets with a label that says, “do not eat.” How many people are pulling those things out and asking “can I put this in my mouth?” Apparently enough that they have to put a label on it. My God, I remember buying an umbrella stroller back in the day with a sticker on the side warning us to “remove child before folding.” Sage advice I grant you, but necessary? Was there a rash of folded children? I even bought a dozen eggs the other day and the label on the back read “Warning: This product contains: eggs.” You see what I mean? We’re THAT culture. So why on earth doesn’t the roller rink have signage everywhere saying things like “Warning: Roller skating has been linked with broken hips,” or “Warning: If your age is divisible by more than 15 you probably shouldn’t do this” or “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”

I should probably note that I’m not actually aware of whether or not there were any warning signs posted in the space. They very well might have them everywhere but I’m not paying attention to that stuff and somehow that’s their fault. As my ability to block out the numbscape increases, it is their responsibility to create more and more clever ways of catching my attention. For example, if there had been a safety mascot handing out lollipops, plastic spider rings, and Ace bandages then I might have noticed. Actually, I think I’m onto something here. Imagine a brightly colored character holding a horn and waving a cane around while yelling “Hiya Hiya Hiya folks! I’m Splints the Fracture Clown. Don’t forget to update your insurance package before skating! Honk! Honk!” I would definitely pay attention to that. Wouldn’t you?

As I stood on the edge of the wooden oval, I had a moment to contemplate what I was about to undertake. To amuse myself I’m going to lock my lower appendages into booties that my body is completely uncomfortable with, that make walking basically impossible, and feature wheels which might slip out from underneath me at any moment. I’m going to take these ill-fitting booties and slowly work my way onto an oval arena that’s been designed as an endless loop since stopping seems pretty much out of the question when your feet have been replaced with wheels. The surface of this infinite loop is made of the same material they use to make basketball courts, which are designed to produce a satisfyingly high bounce when things are thrown against it. In this case the things thrown against the parquet floor will be my head, my wrists, and perhaps an elbow or two. In this metaphor I’m the basketball and gravity is LeBron James. Get it?

The edges of this arena are ever-so-slightly padded in acknowledgement that some percentage of the people circling it are not going to be able to brake properly and must be given a stopping strategy which is essentially just, “Go run into that wall.” Oh, and it’s also important to note that the arena will be filled with as many other people as they can possibly fit, making the whole experience something more akin to trying to buy micro-greens from Solid Ground Farms at the indoor farmer’s market. It’s just so crowded! Though in one case you may end up not getting the lacinato kale while the other could end up with you in traction. The final piece of this perspective puzzle is that this whole scene will be scored by agonizingly loud music and horribly distracting lighting, just to make sure ALL your senses are slightly fogged up. And every third song will be Taylor Swift. It seems like that’s a rule. If it were up to me that place would be as brightly lit as possible, with no distractions at all, and padding everywhere. More akin to a bouncy house than DeathRace 2000. This is supposed to be family entertainment, not live Frogger. And don’t think those cheese fries are going to calm anyone’s fears. Well, maybe a bit. Cheese fries are pretty awesome.

This being the first time I’d been to a rink in well over a decade, these were the thoughts streaking through my mind as I stepped onto the wooden floor. The stakes are a lot higher too. I’m 52 years old. No, wait. 53. No, sorry, I’ll be … what year is it? Anyway, I’m reasonably sure I’m in my early 50s. An injury at this point could mean weeks or months of rehab. Who’s got time for that? That said, I’m a face-your-fears kind of guy, or at least that’s what I was telling myself as I waddled out onto the rink.

At this point I’m sure you’re quivering with anticipation of what happened next and I’m not one to leave audiences hanging. As I mangled my way onto the floor my 12-year-old son blew past me and zipped his way almost three-quarters of the way around the rink before falling and breaking his wrist. God’s honest truth. All us oldies made it out alive but the youngster took the dive.

Somehow, though, I don’t get the sense that this experience has exposed his mortal coil as much as I might have hoped. The conversation in the hospital waiting room was all about why I wouldn’t let him snowboard with a cast on his arm. “Dad, isn’t that what the cast is for?”