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.