Home again.

So the triumphant comeback didn't exactly pan out. Every day I planned to call my coach. Every day I decided to call her the next day. This continued for two months. In late May, my parents decided that I needed to do something meaningful during the summer, instead of lazing around the house like a goddamn underachiever. So I researched teen summer programs. For some reason, I wanted to go to Africa. I chose Morocco. It was the worst six weeks of my life. But also the best. I learned so much more than I've learned my entire life. I hated every minute of it and miss it every day. But this isn't the blog for that.

Since I returned, I went skating with a friend once. I went skating on my own once. Actually, it was an empty freestyle session. Empty except for me and a recent medalist at Nationals. Recent, as in last year. I made a fool out of myself, but I was exhilarated after.

This past week I've been planning to call my coach again. I'll do it on Monday. I'll do it on Tuesday. Do it on Wednesday. On Thursday, I couldn't stop thinking about calling her. My mom got my ass in gear and I finally picked up the fucking phone.

I was awkward. My coach was so nice.

I'm skating on Monday.

Wish me luck, empty Internet.

Stupidity.

So.

In the time that's passed, I've:

1) Entered a competition.  My first competition after returning.

a) Did all of the necessary things for said competition, such as:

I. Chose music.  My coach gave me a CD of crappy music and I just went ahead and chose my own.

II. Created a program.  It was kind of crappy.  

But kind of okay.

III. Bought a dress.  All rhinestoned out.  Black, as usual.  Ever since I was nine I've had a thing for black skating dresses.  Sparkle spandex monstrosities, of course.  These are two from competitions when I was nine.

    IV. Practiced.

V. Freaked out after midterms, decided to quit.

VI. Talked to Mom about quitting.

VII. Talked to coach about quitting.

VIII. Let coach talk me into staying.

IX. Quit the next day, leaving a tearful and utterly incoherent phone message for my coach.

2) Quit.  At first, I was like, "This is so awesome!  I don't have to get up early!"

3) Reinvented myself recreationally.  "I'll learn Russian!" "I'll play tennis!" "I'll save orphans in South Africa!"

4) Decided that my life was crap.

5) Talked to Mom about skating again.  At first, she was all, "Are you kidding me?" which I expected, of course, but within five minutes we were planning a triumphant comeback.

6) Thinking of places to skate again.  Until I get all of my jumps back, I don't want to go back to my normal rink.  Way too awkward.  I'm thinking of an arena in a bigger city.  Just going to a freestyle in a week or so, getting my strength up in the meantime, no big deal.  Then, if it sticks, I might ease back into lessons.  And crap.  Also, I'm thinking of throwing in the towel and going to spend the last two years of high school in a boarding school in Switzerland.  It has a skating rink.  Fuck yes.

Anyway, I live close enough to LA to go to Worlds.  The only event I'm seeing is the men's free, but still.  Unfortunately, I don't really have anyone to root for.  Stephane Lambiel and Jeff Buttle retired, Johnny Weir didn't make the team, Brian Joubert and Evan Lysacek seem like douchebags.  Fuck the quad, I'm going for Patrick Chan.  What kills me the most is the face that Alban Preaubert won't be competing.  That guy is a serious badass motherfucker.  

I mean, look at this bitch.

Anyone who says that they aren't aroused is a fucking liar.

Tha baddest G around

Yesterday was my first time on ice for weeks.  I missed a Friday to stay at a friend's house while my mom and brother toured colleges.  I missed a Tuesday because I had a migraine and a Friday because it was the day after my sixteenth birthday and I was going to see Spring Awakening with a friend.  I wanted to miss this Tuesday, too.  I had just gotten my voice back after a weekend of horrific laryngitis and I was pretending to have a sore throat.  The truth was that I really just didn't want to skate.  At all.  This is one of my biggest problems.  I either have to commit my entire life to skating or I completely lose interest.  I can't go halfway.  I can't skate two days a week.  I have to obsess.  And if I don't obsess, I don't care.  

"Mom.  Can I not go skating tomorrow?"

"What?  Why?"

"My throat hurts.  And I have a chemistry quiz, and it's going to be really hard..."

"Then you have to call your coach.  I'm not doing this."

I scowled and stomped away, rewinding eleven years to magic myself into a five year old.  I didn't want to call my coach.  I would just feel guilty.  So I watched Mao Asada's 2007 short program and listened to a song that makes me want to skate.  And I prepared to obsess.

This morning I slept in until 5:45.  I panicked before realizing that I had no school and my lesson was at 7:30.  It went well.  I learned some weird-as-hell MITF.  My jumps were hit or miss.  My spins were okay, but I stumbled a lot.  I can't stop myself from stumbling in front of Mr. &#@%$. He's the senior coach there.  He's coached a recent Olympian.  And she didn't place last, or anything.  She medaled.  He's the best, so I skate like shit whenever he's turned my way.  

I'm skating five days this week.  Even on Thanksgiving.

Left behind.

I set my alarm for 4:39.  I woke up sometime before that.  I was having an amazing dream about this boy, M, who I hardly know.  I distinctly remember thinking, in my dream, "I'm so glad I'm not dreaming, because this is great.  I should open my eyes, just to prove to myself that it's not a dream."  I'm sure you can imagine the letdown after I pried my eyes open just to find myself in bed.

After my alarm went off, I went back to bed.  I fell asleep for a few minutes until my mom, noticing that my light wasn't on, came in to wake me.  I asked her what time is was and she said, "Between quarter of five to ten of five."  For some reason, I kept asking her until she read me the exact time on my clock, 4:48.  I guess I just didn't believe her.  She asked if I was feeling okay.  I was feeling okay, just sleepy, but she assumed that I wasn't doing well because I had terrible cramps yesterday.  I went along with it.

I got to the rink and laced up with my new Bungapads on my ankles to protect them from blisters.  My skates are very, very new and I'm trying to break them in.  Five minutes before my lesson at 5:50, I stepped onto the ice.  I did the necessary things to get myself used to the ice.  I did a couple fast laps, then a few big waltz jumps and some single loops just to throw myself into the air for the first time.  I did forward and backward scratches to warm up my spins and see how centered I would be that morning.  Five minutes later, my coach hadn't arrived.  I started stroking and moves in the field.  Ten minutes later, I was doing some flips while scanning the ice.  After twenty minutes, I consulted with my mom about whether it was Tuesday or not.  I resigned myself to the fact that she probably wasn't coming and got back on the ice.  I decided to just let myself go and do the things I enjoyed.  I spun.  I did some good camels and attitudes and catchfoots.  I would skate a few laps in between without worrying whether my toes were pointed and my feet were turned out.

I went to school but only made it through my study period and dance class before I called Mom to pick me up.  She's very understanding about stuff like that and she trusts my judgment, which I appreciate.  My coach called and told us why she was late.  We rescheduled for tomorrow at 5:30.  I fell asleep for twenty minutes.  Now my homework is calling.

Sleeping in.

My mom slept in this morning and I can't skate.  Now I am lying in my bed with my dog, still in my skating clothes, feeling like shit.  It's weird.  My mom is always up to take me.  Now her light's not even on.  I feel sort of abandoned.

My dad was the only one up.  While I was getting ready, I heard the sink.  My dad never uses the sink, so I thought it would be impossible for my mom not to be up.  But only my dad was in the kitchen when I walked in with my skates and my Bungapad.  

He said, "I'll take you."

I didn't want him to take me.  I never want him to take me again.  The last time he went, he wore sweatpants tucked into hiking boots and he acted hostile towards everyone.  I was beyond humiliated.

He offered to take me in his bathrobe.  I said no.

My mom just walked in.  At first she seemed sorry.  Then she bitched at me for not walking the dog yesterday.  Then she said she was tired of driving me and my brother places.  Maybe she should get a spine and make my brother learn to drive.  He's eighteen and he can't drive, which is retarded.  Don't yell at me for his problems.  Then she said my room was a mess.  Then she said that she didn't know about skating anymore.  So she went from okay to cunt in about a minute.  I really, really hate her right now.  All I want to do is skate.  That's all.

No skate, Sunday

It is 9:32 on a Sunday morning in California, my current state of residence.  There is a slight breeze and the lawnmowers are blaring.  I have been up for four hours.  Well, more than that.  I had a restless sleep.  I dreamed that I offered my mortal enemy, A (I'm fifteen, I'm allowed to have mortal enemies), a chocolate muffin.  I was eating a toffee muffin.  I'm not sure those exist. Which reminds me, I gained a pound and a half.  Lame.  

I kept waking up throughout the night, thinking it was Monday and it was time to get up.  I can never sleep through the night because I somehow manage to convince my unconscious self that I have overslept.  I guess that should be expected when the alarm goes off at 4:40 A.M.  I need to fix my alarm.  It's about fifteen years old and set to the strangest station ever.  I wake up to people talking about Barack Obama, baseball, or oral sex.  It depends on the day.  

Anyway, I have to set my alarm so loud that the entire house can hear it.  It used to take an earthquake, large-scale, to wake me up.  Now I can't sleep.  I am plagued by thoughts of, "Is it six?  Oh, God, I overslept.  No, wait, it gets light at six now.  It's still dark out?  Hmm.  Maybe it's 5:30.  I overslept!  I can't believe it!  I have to get up!  Wait.  What day is it?  It's Monday!  If Wednesday is hump day, I wonder what Monday is.  I can't believe I told Mom that I am clinically depressed on Sundays and Mondays.  She's going to watch me now.  Stupid!  Wait.  I went to Chick's yesterday!  I never shop on Sundays.  So today is Sunday?  Thank God!  Okay.  Maybe I can sleep a little more.  Just a little.  Or should I stay up?  I can rub my toes together for a while.  Just a while..."

This happens again and again.  Last night I left my windows open and I kept waking up because I could hear a violent wind raping my house.  I shouldn't say rape.  This is a family blog.  No, this is a me blog.  No one will read this but me.

The rest of my day will consist of planning.  Planning calories.  Planning homework.  Planning skating.  I spend so much time planning that I find myself panicking at seven at night when I haven't done anything but plan all day.  If I write my plan down, will I actually do it?  Okay.  I'm not going to skate today.  Public sessions aren't worth it.  Why didn't I skate yesterday morning?  I was tired, I guess.  Idiot.  I'll skate Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Okay.  I will do off-ice.  A ton.  I will do my homework.  I will shower.  I will sleep.  I will not panic.