There are moments in my life that seem inconsequential in hindsight; however, the smallest item can instantly transport me back to my youth and all the feelings of the moment come rushing back. Feelings of being a weird kid in a weird town living a weird life and trying desperately to find my niche in life. (Spoiler alert: it was not to be found in the skating rink.) Join me as we go on a journey filled with spills, thrills, and the dulcet tones of Richard Marx.

Growing up in a suburb of Dallas, Texas in the 1980s is not as thrilling as one might imagine. In the days before the internet the world could be a lonely place. It was especially lonely for a young kid trying to survive being a middle child and the syndrome that comes with it. Whenever I hear the song "Right Here Waiting" by Richard Marx I recall the summer of 1989, and one of my many attempts at finding myself.

At the time, my older brother was into the skateboarding scene while I was more into the “getting on a board and falling whenever I tried to do the simplest trick” scene. As such, I needed to find something more my speed. My issue with skateboarding was apparent only when I attempted to do a trick. If I could find something that involved wheels but no tricks I would be okay. I recalled kids at school talking about the local skating rink, so I had my eureka moment. I just knew that I was born to roller-skate.

One Friday night, I built up the nerve to venture out of my home and walk the couple of blocks to the local rink. The building and sign might have been appealing in the 70’s, but time had not been kind. One of the lights on the sign was burnt out and the building could have used a good power washing. The smell of burnt popcorn and dirty hot dog racks assaulted my nostrils as I entered to face my destiny. I paid my two dollars to rent some skates which was a small price to pay for awesomeness. I don’t remember the exact song that was playing while donning my skates, but it was probably something by Debbie Gibson or New Kids on the Block. Skates tied tight and my head filled with dreams of gliding across the floor it was time to embrace my calling.

My foot touched the floor, and I immediately fell on my butt. Not a problem. I would surely get it next time. I pulled myself up and moved forward a couple of paces. At that moment, my legs decided it was time to do the splits. This was not going according to plan, but I was adamant that I was going to succeed. I wish I could say through my grit and determination I became a skating master. Alas, I flopped around for an unknown amount of time until the DJ called for couples skate. To this day, I don’t know if he did it to save a ten-year old Squidbee from further embarrassment, but if so, thank you Mr. DJ.

I slowly made my way across the floor to the safety of a bench and my shoes. I was extremely disappointed in myself and all of the feelings that I would later find out to be bipolar disorder started to creep in. Richard Marx started playing as I watched couples—young and old—hold each other and glide effortlessly across the floor that had been my downfall. My night was effectively ruined until I heard the beep bloop of my electronic savior.

Unbeknownst to me, the rink had an arcade set up next to the food court. I ended up losing myself in a sea of flashing lights and electric euphoria. Most of my money was spent playing Elevator Action. It was originally released in 1983 and that night it was my escape. (Thanks to the rink for having an outdated arcade selection.) How can anyone be depressed with an elevator-riding, secret-stealing super spy?

Needless to say, roller-skating was not my future, and it would be another 8 years before I stepped foot into a skating rink again. I would eventually find my scene, but that is a story for another day. Right now I need to throw on some Electric Youth and dance around my living room.