I did not see Alex again that weekend when he failed to show at Hansie’s adult session. However, he telephoned during the week to invite me for dinner again on Friday night, which I accepted. Only one date with Alex, and the promise of another, sent my imagination into overdrive. I began to envision a long-term relationship with him, a union that would involve skating as well as traditional romantic activities. We might even learn to ice dance as a couple. The idea of dating a fellow skater appealed to me. I assumed a common love of the sport would bond us together with a type of understanding that would not be possible with a non-skating mate. Skating could be an integral part of our life together. ‘How cute,’ I thought in a moment of fancy, ‘we met at the rink’.

Of course, any notion of commitment with a man I barely knew was ridiculous. I had already experienced a similar situation with Howard Millbank. But I had settled into a mature lifestyle and felt essentially ready to begin exploring the possibility. If the right opportunity came along now that I was out of school and working like a real human being, I might be ready for marriage.

But Alex was not the right man for me. On our third weekend date, after I had become sincerely interested in him, he mentioned getting together the next Saturday so I could meet his daughter. I knew Alex had been divorced, and that did not bother me. However, I was unaware that he had a child from his prior marriage. The seven-year-old girl lived with her mother, but Alex had visitation rights on alternate weekends, which explained his fortnightly absence from the rink. I doubt Alex intended to deceive me by not mentioning his child. Perhaps he did not know me well enough to discuss personal issues, or he assumed I already knew his life story because hanging out at Hansie’s Ice Chalet offered access to the same information about him that was available to the other adult regulars.

I balked awkwardly at the invitation, obviously unpleasantly surprised. “I didn’t know you had children,” I began uncomfortably.

Alex went on about what a lovely girl Becky was, which I did not doubt. However, I felt like a kid myself, having only been independent of the poverty and oppression of graduate school since September. I filled my needs with skating, trips to the mall, and trinkets that I had not been able to afford in the past. I was still playing house, surveying existence as a grown-up. Though reveling in my independence, I would have liked to meet a wonderful gentleman companion but not one that came equipped with a ready-made family. I was not prepared to be someone’s father’s girlfriend.

I thought about this for a few days after seeing Alex and decided I could not handle such a complicated situation. Telling him made me feel like a jerk. But I had learned my lesson about remaining involved in an uncertain relationship while waiting for the correct feelings to surface. Alex may have been a suitable partner for me, and I may have adored his little Becky, but I could not make the necessary emotional investment to test this theory. Had I been older, or divorced myself, or more experienced with the rigors of adulthood, I might have accepted Alex as a potential partner, but becoming involved with a man who already had children was out of the question.

The circumstances of Alex’s life were not my only baptism into the real world. I had faced unpleasantness at work as well. Aside from the downsizing and subsequent tension that permeated the place, I dealt with negativity from certain associates. Fortunately, these were a minority and I got along well with most of my contemporaries at the cosmetic research and development center. Coworkers, who were about my age, had already lived in the proverbial real world for several years, having started their careers immediately after college graduation. They had mortgages, car payments, debt from other sources, retirement plans, stock portfolios and families; some of the families had already divorced. This seemed too serious for me, at twenty-eight years old. I had just begun to live. I did not need to become bogged down with bills, personal problems, and the eventuality of old age. Graduate school allowed me time to fool around and skate while being noncommittal. It gave me an excuse for being broke, not owning anything of substance, and not having a family or a plan for my future. These were the precise reasons students like Talbert remained in school, to avoid responsibility. The simple phrase: ‘I’m a graduate student’ excuses a multitude of sins and inadequacies.

In a new twist on the green-eyed monster, some colleagues were unabashedly jealous of me. I was usually the one who coveted the achievements of others. Now a new breed of villains had appeared in my life, those who envied me. My doctoral diploma was the primary object of their desire. At first I dismissed the comments as good-natured teasing. Remarks like: “Let’s ask Kate, she’s the one with the Ph.D.” or “Gee, Kate, you don’t know the answer? I thought you learned everything in graduate school”. However, none of these statements poked light-hearted fun at me. The same people hypothesized that I would be promoted to management over them whether I deserved it or not because I held a doctoral degree. In a moment of guilt, the offender would try to joke: “I guess if I had a Ph.D., I would be management material too.” And I would try to smile.

I was not at Contessa Cosmetics to become a manager or to steal anyone’s advancement opportunity. I just wanted a job, a paycheck to finance my independence and skating habit. I did not plan to work myself into the ground trying to become executive vice president. I was not, and had never been, a workaholic. Skating was my passion. Work paid the bills. My supposed rivals for the throne could keep the long hours and the stress. Graduate school had already provided my fill of that nonsense with no monetary reward, only a vellum diploma that these ambitious sharks wished they could frame and hang in their cubicles.

One afternoon I sat peacefully in my little cubbyhole, typing a report on my computer. Needing a break from staring at the monitor and the dull verbiage, I decided to take a restroom break and walk through the halls. This always soothed my eyes and allowed a moment to stretch. As a benefit, I usually encountered someone else engaged in the same refreshing activity with whom I could exchange a few pleasant words. Upon returning to my desk, I sat down quietly and reread my work from a renewed perspective.

The telephone rang in Warren’s cubicle, adjacent to mine. A series of quick single rings signified an inside call. Warren, a man in his late twenties, typified the younger adult who shouldered all of the personal and financial burdens people like Talbert went to great lengths to avoid. His wife was pregnant expecting their first child. As soon as the baby was conceived, Warren ran out to buy a sport-utility vehicle. I remember hearing him boast about the car and its necessary expense. “We need a big car for the baby.”

I giggled at Warren, “That must be a pretty big baby.”

The fellow did not appreciate my sense of humor. He was merely living the American dream by spending beyond his means when a convenient excuse arose. His wife could easily fit a baby seat in the sedan they already owned. Of course, Warren’s financial decisions were none of my business, but I was intrigued by the man’s consumerism.

Warren chatted incessantly with someone on the telephone. He complained about the continued stress at the R&D center, a popular topic of conversation between veteran employees who felt like griping. Warren proceeded to bitch about lack of recognition, another universally appealing issue. I did not intentionally eavesdrop on Warren’s discussion, but he was speaking as though no one else were in the room. I could not help but overhear, although I tried to focus on my report.

“… and the VP never comes through here anymore,” Warren continued disgustedly, “not unless she plans to see Kate, and that’s only because Kate has a Ph.D.”

That last remark stung. Warren obviously did not realize I had returned from the ladies’ room. He had seen me exit but did not know I was back at my desk. My officemate continued to complain into the mouthpiece, though his commentary about me had apparently concluded. However, I felt a need to let him know I overheard his unkind statement. I considered banging on the partition that separated our desks, but that would be too overt. I could simply start typing, but over his loud voice, that would be too subtle. Instead, I got up and walked through the room again, casually glancing at the young man as I passed his desk. He looked up at me, open-jawed while I smiled politely, continuing to make my way toward the door.

This time Warren noted my return and appeared shortly thereafter in the entranceway to my cubicle.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, Kate.”

“I’m sorry you had to say it and even sorrier if that’s how you really feel,” I returned calmly. I had no special relationship with the vice president of product development. The woman merely seemed to be checking on me, making sure I was settled and having no problems. I did not excuse Warren for his nastiness when I could have simply accepted his apology, a confession given by a child who got caught in the act but would otherwise feel no remorse.

Warren could have walked away but he continued to talk, obviously he had sprung an emotional leak and needed to vent on someone else. “Gretchen comes in here to see you. She must have your name on her short list of future management.”

“Warren, I think Gretchen is just trying to be nice. How could she have decided my career path when she barely knows me?”

“You have a doctorate. That gives you an advantage,” he added evenly.

I may have only been hurt before, but now I was angry.

“I’m guessing we are about the same age,” I ventured. “While you were working here earning a decent living, getting married and buying a house; I was in school without so much as a pot to piss in. But that’s the choice I made, and I’m not complaining about it. I enjoyed those years, for the most part. However, I made a decision that influenced my life then and maybe now,” I explained. I hated to preach, but I needed to say this as much as Warren needed to hear it. “You could still go back to school if you really wanted a graduate degree. Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy. I went through hell for that degree.”

“I can’t go back to school now. My wife is pregnant!” he declared hotly.

I shrugged my shoulders in feigned concession. That qualified as another decision on Warren’s part.

Warren just stared at me. I stood up for myself and spoke the truth. He may have thought I was a pontificating little elitist, but I did not say anything hurtful. Warren had chosen another path, now he had to find a way to be satisfied with it. I really did not know if my education entitled me to special consideration, but I suspected it might. Dr. Butler certainly did not want to bestow the title without careful contemplation. As a student, I had hoped earning a doctoral degree would make people respect me, and apparently some did, but another population was jealous and spiteful.

“Look, Warren,” I began trying to defuse the situation, “you did what was right for you, and I did what was right for me. It doesn’t mean we can’t try something else in the future. Emotions have been running high around here lately. Let’s just forget about this.”

“Okay,” he said and skulked away behind the partition.

Sadly, I had not counted Warren among those who might be resentful toward me. We had been friendly, or at least neighborly, since we sat side-by-side every day. However, under Warren’s cordial façade brewed the antipathy of hindsight.

Fortunately, Alex did not skate during the week, at least not at Hansie’s. I needed to expel the tension I still felt over my exchange with Warren and preferred not to deal with other variables. But skating at Hans Koenig’s Ice Chalet resulted in more aggravation than relief. I was tired of the self-proclaimed greats who frequented the evening freestyles with their doting parents. Combining this with reluctance to face Alex on Sunday mornings, I decided to make good on my resolution to seek alternate skating facilities.

My quest entailed driving long distances and spending a lot of money on freestyle sessions at fancy rinks, but left me lost and frustrated. These other arenas offered legitimate training programs for youthful skaters and their ambitious deep-pocketed parents. Hansie’s rink was simply too small to accommodate these upscale clients. Any after work session was also an after school session, meaning the ice filled with teens and children competing eagerly for a patch of ice to attempt a double or triple jump. Usually twenty to thirty aggressive young athletes practiced on the same session. Many rinks did not divide the groups between high and low freestyle, though I also felt like a clod on the occasional low freestyle sessions I managed to locate. Low freestyle sessions allow axels and beginning doubles, while high freestyle sessions permit a mélange of advanced double jumps, triples and overhead pair lifts.

Jumpless, by comparison, I hardly belonged on a freestyle session of any sort. I stood in the center spinning and sometimes in a corner, spinning. Always in the way, I was too afraid to venture into traffic and skate with the crowd. I lacked agility and speed, plus I could not do anything to speak of. Even the smallest children cut close to me, as though I were no more than a pylon in an obstacle course. Most of these skaters did not have the petty self-important attitudes of the freestylers at Hansie’s. These were better skaters who could control their flight paths and were used to jumping within inches of their contemporaries. They did not pass any closer to me than they did to each other. Their tactics were not meant to intimidate, but near misses and close quarters were merely the law of the frozen jungle. However, every session has a prima donna, a self-centered athlete (not necessarily female) who believes he or she is better than everyone else, and; therefore, the inferiors should make way. This individual lacks personality, at least anything than could be defined as character or quality, and is usually not well liked by others.

Skating in these training centers made me feel like a clumsy adult skater, a recreational participant who should clear the ice when the real athletes are ready to rehearse. I met a few adults in those free-for-alls, most had skated as children and knew how to navigate in a swarm. They passed between and among the kids instinctively, having grown up in a similar environment. The rare beginning adult often accompanied me in a corner and admired my spins, claiming I possessed the skills to get out their with the teenagers. How well those brilliant spins concealed the true nature of my overall ability! I was a one-trick pony who maneuvered to the central spin zone and remained trapped there until the Zamboni forced the young hellions off the ice sheet.

My travels led me back to Hansie’s Ice Chalet, a wayward poodle returning with its tail between its legs. I did not belong in those serious ice arenas with the young people who could really skate and the few adults who learned as children. I belonged at Hansie’s.

Alex and Georgeanne were happy to see me return, providing a sense of warmth and friendship, two things I needed in my life. Alex went to extra lengths to make me feel comfortable, intentionally behaving just as he did before we started to date. He even made annoying premature comments about my skating, often critiquing the first camel of the day. Eventually, Alex and I became true friends, sometimes having lunch after the Sunday session. I found his friendship far more rewarding than an ill-fated romance.

Chapter 59 posted 9/17/02
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