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THE NARRATIVE ARC
My Husband Rollerbladed Away—From Our Marriage
Time traveling through bad decisions, with some pop culture and a smile
The memory splutters through my mind like an old VHS tape. Most times, I ignore it, like a problematic 1990s sitcom. Other times, nostalgia trumps regret, and I can’t help but press play on the movie of me.
In 1995, Steve and I were twenty-six years old and one year into marriage. Legally bound and determined to escape the redundantly dreary and inclement Midwest, where dreams go to die. We chased our happily ever after to Tucson, Arizona.
In my memory, a motel signpost fights for focus, flashing a familiar yet forgettable mishmash name. It’s Econo-Eight, or Super Six, or some similar ridiculousness, as if it’s the bastard offspring of two cheap motels’ hookup. Our room reeked of old and mold, an indelicate bouquet of desert dry with notes of cigarettes.
Fate had dropped it onto a giant asphalt slab. The mostly deserted lot was as smooth as black ice. It was perfect for roller-blading, a free workout for two gym rats on a budget.
“I refuse to spend half my waking existence scraping ice off the windshield of life,” I’d whined metaphorically one sub-zero morning.
