I'm atrocious at routine.
But maybe if I make it a little bit fun, it'll go better.
So I think this month, my NoJoMo (November Journaling Month) entries will be trips down memory lane.
It'll help me in the future, when I'm old and can't even remember if I wiped my bottom before I got off the pot.
Seeing as this is the month of Thanksgiving, I thought I'd start out with a little bit of my Skating Cavalcade of Horrors.
Back in the day, I took skating lessons. I think it's part of being Canadian. You've gotta know how to skate. You've gotta know how to curl. You've gotta know how to watch hockey. Knowing how to play hockey (if you're a girl) is optional.
I would like the record to show that my mother sewed each one of those little white giant-sequins on by hand. I don't remember what the orange decorations were. Some sort of plasticy thing, no doubt. And the indian costume was just a square of felt, folded over, with my head through the middle. Open at the sides, and held together with a pair of safety pins, I think. Seems kind of risque for a group of 10 year olds to be wearing, that's for darned sure.
I think this is the costume that I was wearing when I walked out onto the ice in a positive frenzy to get my program signed by Don Jackson, "King of Blades", and fell flat on my face in front of him. I'd forgotten to take my skate guards off before stepping out onto the ice. I like to think that he remembers me fondly.
I must say, I wouldn't mind having those shapely legs back. Or that colour of hair. But I'm happier with my teeth now. My serious skating years were during my half-adult, half-baby-teeth years, and that phase is never all that pretty.
Thanks, mom and dad, for the skating lessons. I know they were atrociously expensive.