by Melissa Dodd

I went on a date yesterday which went really well. I kinda like the guy. The fact of the matter is that I thought that he was gay when I first met him. (Cute, well-dressed actor?) An issue of some concern if I am now only fooling my first instinct. My second and pervasive instinct in the matter was that he’s absolutely adorable. So I’d like to go with the second.

It’s been a long time since I had a crush on someone. Crush? For me, it means that I cleaned my bedroom before the guy came over to practice our acting class scene. It also means that I was too shy to look him in the eye at our third class, that I was PRAYING that he ask to give me a ride home, that I scampered down the stairs after him to accept the ride (too late), that I was miffed to be offered a ride home by another class mate who then asked me out two times and looked nothing like my objective, and, finally, that I was surprised and pleased to get a phone call from him.

The only problem was that he asked me to go roller skating. He said that he had seen my roller skates in my bedroom and would I like to go? I said, "Sure."

I bought those dumb roller skates at a yard sale three weeks ago - with the last poor guy that I dated - for $5. (Not the guy, the skates). I hadn’t even laced them up. I bought the skates because I thought they were cute.

I do own roller blades and have used them a dozen times, but they reside in my mother’s basement at the moment. I am not a novice in the sport. Maybe an intermediate? That being said, I still had a problem putting on my wrist guards (backwards) and the skates (too-short laces), which resulted in my date skating at a tenth of his normal speed. ("Crush" also means that I noticed and winced at this fact).

We skated for about an hour and a half. It was great. I really like being outside and being active with other people. I just don’t do it that often.

I surround myself with three types of athletes: non-practicing, retired or enthusiastic trainers who are looking for a rest.

Non-practicing characterizes my New York persona and all of my club-hopping, late sleeping New York friends who barely touched a gym much less participated in some hokey softball league.

Retired athletes are people who I have envied because they were quick, had bravery in their sport, and seemed happy and confident because of it. The sad part is that they practice the athletic life little and end up spending their time with non-practicing athletes if only to make themselves feel better.

The third athlete is the marathon-running bike-riding winter-skiing trainers who have spent their weekend pounding out their strides and sweat glands, are rushed up on endorphins and are looking for good conversation and down-time on a Sunday evening.

They are the partiers who go out Friday and Saturday later than myself and wake up to a pair of sweatpants and a bottle of Gatorade before I rise to my computer and cup of coffee.

By the time our Sunday evenings roll around, I feel exhausted from a weekend of critical thought and long walks. They haven’t analyzed their lives in two days. It makes for a joyous and well-balanced dialogue.

I do not fit into one of my categories. I am . . . active. But, I don’t sweat a lot. And I don’t relish the idea of a training partner. A team. A club. I am the least likely person you know to hit you up for an AIDS ride donation.

I long to be an enthusiast but fear joining up because of my naiveté and lower performance standards. I have ridden behind the masses over the Golden Gate Bridge and slowed down my share of activity companions. So much so that I have discovered and maintain the solitary athletic life.

I choose to bike alone, to walk alone, to ski alone, to skate alone (when I did so). To preserve "me time" with the adamant desire to pursue my goals with as little scheduling interference or pride busting as possible.

There are several difficulties in the solitary athletic life, the first and foremost being the sporadic nature of such a life. Some days its just too damn hard for little old me to get out of bed and make myself walk, run, ski, skate, bike or breathe continuously through my nose while hydrating appropriately!

The second is a little sad. I call it "my general state of isolation." Don’t get me wrong. I will show up at your AIDS ride bar fundraiser. I have friends. I am not a curmudgeon. I just like a whole lot of me time.

I am not pleased with isolation but I will argue that many activities are best done and disciplined to be done ALONE. Writing this story, reading a meditation in the morning, eating a breakfast or any meal in the privacy of my home, showering, breathing, painting a picture, and skimming the newspaper.

On the other hand, it would also be possible and more challenging and maybe even more fulfilling to write a story along side another writer; to read a meditation or stare into another person’s eyes during meditation; to eat breakfast (in silence thank you very much) next to another morning pursuer.

It need not even be mentioned that to shower with another is more preferable than solo cleansing time. To breathe is possible against another person’s chest. To paint with two brushes - unthinkable but a joyful thought.

Four eyes skimming my newspaper? Hogwash. But I wouldn’t mind it if another person pointed out really good articles and cartoons.

Before I start looking for this non-self-contained breathing apparatus of an activity partner, I am content spending the afternoon on wobbly roller skates next to an athlete who is not only adorable but open to spending the afternoon with an isolationist sporadically non-practicing athlete like myself. Lesson #141 recorded if not yet learned.

Melissa Dodd is a candidate for an MA in political science, but she makes her living performing voices for radio commercials and video games. www.melissadodd.com.