Saturday night Ari and I decided to go to our favorite Mexican restaurant, eat lots of food and drink so many margaritas that we’d laugh uncontrollably at each other’s jokes.
We settled in to a nice table outside and began eating and drinking when it became apparent that there was Something Different about the man sitting at the table next to us.
We both noticed at the same time.
The man was on wheels.
I don’t know what would have possessed him to make him want to do this, but there he was.
He was a casually-dressed white male in his early to mid forties, wearing roller blades while eating at a restaurant.
Now Mary Ann’s is not a classy joint, so I’m not knocking the man for his lack of proper attire. I was really just stunned by the fact that because he chose skates over Keds this eve, he actually had to roll through the restaurant to get to his table.
He rolled by people eating.
He rolled by the various wait staff.
He rolled by the salsa.
He decided when he was leaving his apartment, that no matter what events unfolded in front of him, no matter where his travels took him, he would meet it all with a roll and a smile.
He laughed in the face of laces and he was not looking back.
Ari and I enjoyed his choice, and when it came time for him and the woman he was with to leave, she reached down and – to our delight – strapped on a pair of roller blades too.
We watched them roll on to their next adventure, exiting the restaurant like rolling angels.
Not a care in the world.
Just the sound of their wheels hitting the floor, the wind bustling through their hair, and nothing but the open road ahead.