I’ve designed a product to stop teenagers from borrowing your car:

So essentially she can make the choice while driving around town: pick her nose…or not.

(Okay, yes, this is the most crass post I’ve put out there in a long while, but have you LIVED WITH or SMELLED a teenager lately?

oxoxoxox
Kim

For those of us women-of-a-certain-age, I’m pleased to announce a new product on the market to battle mid-life crisis.  What?  Mid-life what?  I can hear you saying, “Kim, you’re much too clever to succumb to a banality such as MLC.”  Well, before you toss me right into the Erma Bombeck pile (a pile into which I’d humbly hunker down, by the way), let me do some ‘splainin’.

Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I am of-a-certain-age, or more accurately, approaching-a-certain-age.  Let’s also say, for the same argument, that I am female and don’t have the need to replicate the penis of my dreams with a Porsche Carrera.  Let’s also go out on a limb and assume I don’t need to get my groove back with a cabana boy.  What’s a girl to do?  I’ve got two words for you, and they are not Enchanted April.

See Candy Hooligan.  See Heather Headlocklear.  They go fast.  See Brawley Parton, Blonde Claude Van Damme and Raven Von Kaos try to stop them.  Hear Rogue Assasin and Robin Yo Life, barking orders from the bench.  They are all on skates, turning left, wearing helmets and pads and sweating like…like hard working kick ass women.  This is roller derby.  Welcome to my mid-life; crisis averted.

“Oh crap,” you are saying to yourself, or perhaps the person next to you, “another aging punk-riot-grrl-volvo-mom waxing poetic about roller derby and inner anger issues.”  I hope not.  “Ugh,” your second instinct kicks in, “another essay about the legitimacy of the “new” derby vs. the WWF leanings of the 1970’s teams we vaguely remember.”  I guarantee not.  (Suffice to say it’s real this time around; there’s no choreographer on the roster; there are medics.) No, this is about me, and that’s what makes it special.  Why I like derby, not why you should like derby.   I have easy answers, and they’re not about hitting other girls.  Let’s break it down, outline style:

 Roller Derby is the perfect sport for Kim because it encompasses three of the five top motivating factors for any activity, hobby or pastime she’s been able to focus on for more than nine days, without the aid of chemical stimulants.  (This would be my thesis.)

I. Drag Queens
    A. “larger than life”
    B.  fabulous names
    C.  pantyhose with shorts

II. Perspiring (aka sweating)
    A. denotes exerting effort, on purpose
    B. sports for post-punk rockers
        1. bowling
        2. beer bowling
        3. roller derby

III. Collective Unconscious
    A. tap dancing
    B. “the wave”
    C. The Chicago Bulls “Three-Peat”
    (don’t worry, I’ll explain these)

I’ll skip the whole “skated when I was a kid” thing.  Really, who cares.  We all did.  Or didn’t.  Or wish we had, or hated someone who tried, or collected spoons instead.  Feh.  Let’s just get to the drag queens, shall we?  Assuming everyone understands my thesis…

Drag queens are awesome, metaphorically and (usually) literally.  I have a special place in my heart for drag queens, maybe because I have now and then been mistaken for one, or because during the early 1980’s in the new wave and punk rock scenes of my formative years, drag queens were the protective overlords of a sometimes scary world.  Skinheads getting you down?  Run to China White or Vaginal Davis.  They’ll make it better.  Being larger than life allowed them to cross barriers of ignorance, bias and pure lunkheadedness with grace, aplomb and humor (1+1+1 = Fabulous!)   In a world where Elizabeth Taylor, Carol Channing and Phyllis Diller can’t exist and thrive anymore, Elizabeth Sailor, Feral Channing and Syphilis Killer can.  Which brings me to the names…ah, the names. 

As demonstrated above, no queen in her right mind would be seen (heard? called?) without a moniker that both nods to the glamour and glitz of a spotlight faded, and hints at a shady underbelly for the denizens with entree to the dark side (and, as a bonus, proves what a clever little bitch you really are).  Talulah Bunkbed and Zsa Zsa LaHore are one duct-tape-party away from being derby names.  Like most derby ladies, I have a list of potential names that stretches for pages.  I briefly considered the name Mid-Life Isis until research revealed Isis as the “perfect wife and mother.”  Um…not the bar I want to set, and really, not very threatening on the track:  “Oh, no!  Here comes that perfect wife and mother! Don’t get nurtured!!” (And, for the record, our league is one of a handful that does not allow skaters to adopt a name until they have reached a predetermined level of skating finesse, commitment and community involvement.  I’ll be there any day now.)

Last but definitely not least in this drag queen category is the wearing of pantyhose with short shorts.  This is one of my favorite combinations, first attempted in the late 1970’s during roller boogie and new wave days, and then abandoned under the peer pressure of everything after that.  But I’ll make this confession right now – I was always one of those “bike shorts under the skirts” girls.  You know who you are, and you KNOW you are also pantyhose with short shorts girls, way deep down inside.  Think about it:  anything that might jiggle is being held in check; many of the minor “surface-of-the-moon” areas of the leg are being smoothed out; skin color variations are being blended into one long Mattel matte masterpiece of perfection, and all coming out of a pair of shorts, the resulting effect  enough to send Jack Tripper into wild fits of Chrissy and/or Janet delight. Now put on a pair of knee socks (no, they do not by law have to be striped) and you will feel the Charlene Tilton glee you so richly deserve. ‘Nuff said.

Perspiration is a sticky subject.  I’m a sweaty girl, I’ll admit it.  When I work at something, I sweat.  I always have.  I spent most of my life looking for solutions to the problem, seeking relief from the pit stains, the wet upper lip, the drips down my back.  I avoided certain types or colors of clothes, especially during the summer in Los Angeles and Chicago.  Eeew.  But the fact of the matter is, when taking part in hard-ass activity that is supposed to make you sweat, the feeling is really very different, and not a lot of people look at you sideways. It feels good, because from what I hear, that’s what sweating is for.  Weird.  So right now, typing and sweating = gross.  Tonight at practice skating, falling and sweating = great.  Sweating is like vacuuming; instant visible results.  “I’m working hard.  See how hard I’m working?  Wow, check out my hardworking body!  I am rocking this.”    And I’m doing it on purpose.  I’m not going to be embarrassed or hide in the corner and keep my arms down at my side, because I got all stinky on purpose.  Woot!

Which brings me to…Not A Lot Of Sports For The Former Punk.  I know a lot of old punks.  Maybe I am an old punk.  There’s a very short list of sports that these people, male and female, take part in.  The list is: bowling and beer bowling.  The difference between the two is subtle.   During legitimate bowling, beer is consumed when thirsty or in a celebratory manner.  During beer bowling, beer is consumed for every strike, spare, split, or gutter ball.  You will find most beer bowlers are in a constant state of training. Roller derby, in my opinion, is a viable option to add to this list.  Alas, there is no “beer derby.”

Now on to the collective unconscious.  “What the hell does Jungian theory have to do with roller derby?” is what you are thinking.  Or perhaps, “What is Jungian theory?” or even “Jung?  Huh?”  Simple explanation of Jungian theory:  The steam engine was invented on opposite sides of the planet at approximately the same time in history.  A sameness in thinking.  My childhood experience with a different version of Jungian expression was group tap dancing – thirty people performing difficult routines beyond the skill level of many of us, flawlessly, perfectly synchronized, feet taking over thought.  Theater performances can have experiences similar to this. Sports teams experience this.  Musicians and mountain climbers experience this.  A group sameness in thinking.  Sometimes it’s mental, sometimes it surpasses the mental and is purely physical, as a group.  It is an amazing feeling.  I’ll bet you weren’t expecting that, were you?  All deep and woo woo.

So let’s talk about the wave.  I love the wave.  It’s not that old, the first usually credited to a hockey game in 1980.  It’s another “group think” phenomena that fascinates me, but is especially dear to my heart because one is forced to rely on complete strangers who feel like idiots to NOT B ne who stands up.  What if you really are the only one who waves at the wrong time.  What if you are the only one who says “whoo!” when you wave.  What if you forget you have soda and popcorn in your lap when you stand up.  There are so many ways to be vulnerable, and so many partially sober people take the chance.  Love the wave.  Embrace the wave.   It will make you human.  The sold-out crowds at the derby bouts in our town have finally, with heroic leadership, conquered the wave. 

And conquering, and collective unconscious and the wave all lead me to the Chicago Bulls 1991,’92,’93 NBA Championships, or to put it in the vernacular of the day, the Three-Peat.  I lived in Chicago during this basketball dynasty and have to tell you that I wasn’t a big fan, despite sharing a birthday with Michael Jordan or having a brother-in-law with an eery white-guy-version-spitting-image of Scotty Pippin.  However, when there’s a home team that rocks, ANY home team that rocks the way that those Bulls rocked, everyone becomes a fan.  There was a feeling in every neighborhood in Chicago
during the play-offs that the world was a good place, and Chicago was a great place, and your neighbors – all three million of them – were super cool individuals.  The roller derby league in my town is the only public sports team that has events open to the public.  To quote our most recent inside joke, “we’re kind of a big deal.”  We sell out the 1,300-seat Civic Auditorium for every home bout.  Fans make signs, wear t-shirts, display stickers on their cars.  The All-Star skaters sign autographs after every event and at community outreach gatherings.  Having this team, this league, in this town is uniting people from all sorts of backgrounds and it’s wonderful.  After we win (or in one case, lose) a bout, it’s not fourteen skaters who won.  It’s 1,300 people who won.  Just like in Chicago it was three million people who won.  And I remember how fun that was, even as more of a spectator to it all.  (See, the longer this piece goes on, the cornier it gets.  Roll over, Mrs. Bombeck.) 

In conclusion, from drag queens to perspiring to Carl Jung, roller derby is for me.  And I don’t give a hoot if it’s for you.  I’ll skate, get hurt, get better, wear my pantyhose and shorts and somehow feel that I’m part of a bigger whole, and it’s okay if you aren’t there doing the wave.  You’ll have to guess which cleverly-named giantess is me.  As for the other two motivating factors that need to be present to hold my attention, it just dawned on me that derby’s got those as well:  an audience and theme music.  So, see you on the flat track.  Or not.  Suit yourself.

(Madame Luke grew up in a small town with two roller skating rinks, an Olympic-size ice rink, a quarter-mile paved race track, and a dirt track, and has therefore been turning left since she was a wee child.  After lengthy stays in Los Angeles and Chicago she currently lives in a smaller town with lofty ideals.)

As I ride my bike while eating an apple, both essential elements of my New Healthy Lifestyle Regime, I suddenly choke on a large bit of healthiness and start coughing uncontrollably, wobbling dangerously in and out of the bike lane, tears streaming down my cheeks as I gasp desperately in search of an inhale, my vision blurred as I become lightheaded, slapped unexpectedly by that damned Australian Willow because I forgot to duck, and in the final moment before what I consider to be my imminent death I recall all of the Crunchy Taco Supremes that I’ve scarfed behind the wheel of my Land Rover, with nary a thought of death or choking since there are both a Diet Pepsi and a driver’s side airbag ready for immediate deployment, and I wonder…is this irony or a karmic sucker punch?

oxoxoxackackack
Kim

p.s. I survive.