When my butt hit the floor, I knew there was no stopping the waterworks.
Earlier this year, I took a six-week “bootcamp” taught by the Arch Rival Roller Derby league in St. Louis. I had completed its introductory skating course just a few months before and hesitantly felt I had enough skills on four wheels to tackle the more derby-focused class.
Despite not knowing anyone in the group nor regularly exercising since middle school, I powered through the first bootcamp and began stumbling through the second.
Each session was a grueling hour and a half – even strenuous to those with an ounce of athleticism, of which I had none.
We warmed up with some laps around the flat oval track, did some stretches, then went through drills to practice our footwork and improve our balance.
Like in the introductory course, I signed up with one lofty goal in mind: make it to the end.
I would rest against the wall to catch my breath, kneel while the coaches gave guidance or take a detour to my water bottle countless times if it meant I reached the blessed finish line.
On the fourth week, my knees buckled beneath me.
At the 30-minute mark, I was feeling the burn.
At 45 minutes, I was getting more frustrated with my shaky legs and felt I was slowing down the six-or-so other skaters in the class.
At an hour, my momentum crumpled.
We lined up for a drill, and I somehow ended up at the front. As instructed, I slowly glided backwards, bumped lightly against the person behind me, shuffled to the side, then backed up against the next skater, continuing down the line.
My first time through, I barely managed to wobble my way to the end.
On the second go-around, right as I finished, my foot slipped out in front of me, a loose piece of my skate flying free, and I landed hard on my backside.
And then, with terror, the tears.
While my reaction was a combination of the strenuous activity, the inconvenient commute to the city and the fact that the class was held at 7:30 p.m. on a weeknight, I was also disappointed in having to tap out early. I, unfortunately, have a track record of putting in a half-hearted effort to the groups or activities I join, only to wriggle out of them at the first hint of discomfort.
Like I mentioned, I did exercise a bit as a kid. I played soccer with the Y every year up until sixth grade, when I missed out on signups because I couldn’t decide if I wanted to keep playing.
At the last minute, I changed my mind and had to sign up for a different, much more intense, league. I didn’t even make it to our first game.
Aside from my poor sports history, I wasn’t involved in many extracurriculars.
Before high school, I quit band: I hated practicing and was so terrified my clarinet would ruin the band’s dulcet tones with a piercing, airy “VWHEEEEE” that I usually only mimed performing during concerts.
For Art Club and newspaper, then comic-making and board games in college, I dabbled in a few activities without feeling fully committed and often showed up to only a few meetings.
Looking back, it’s not that I should never have given up on these activities, but I wish I had put more effort into continuing to pursue things that gave me a sense of community, responsibility and fulfillment.
I have often found it easy for my need for comfort to override my desire to grow, and I still struggle to determine the balance between being comfortable and pushing myself to try new things.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m still a big fan – and practitioner – of quitting when the going gets tough. There shouldn’t be shame in quitting, or even just taking a break.
For example, this summer I was asked to be assistant stage manager for Spotlight Community Theatre’s production of the musical, “Oklahoma!” performed right here in Festus.
I had helped with a few projects the year before, including an especially hectic production of “The Wizard of Oz,” and it had been a little overwhelming to join something new, especially when I’d never been involved in theater before and was surrounded by near-strangers who already had their own camaraderie.
So I took a little break, came back, and had a great time seeing a group come together to put on a fantastic show.
So, I think the answer to deciding whether to call something quits or to seeing it through is to throw spaghetti at the wall and see what sticks. Not every venture will pan out or be enjoyable, but at least you learned something.
To know my limits, I first had to feel out the edges of my comfort zone.
As for roller derby, I’m still not sure if I’ll end up actually playing the sport, but I’m currently taking another bootcamp and enjoying the exercise and social aspect.
After my blunder on the roller rink, the derby instructors fetched my water bottle and checked in on me. I slunk to the bathroom to swallow my tears (and embarrassment), then reemerged to watch the remaining minutes of the lesson.
Each session ended with the group standing in a circle and putting our hands in for a cheer and, though I finished earlier than everyone else, I padded out onto the rink in my socks, a great deal shorter than my towering classmates still in skates, and threw in a hand.