For being such a puny lot, skateboarders really intimidated me growing up. It's not even that I think that they'd be fun to date. All the skaters I knew where obsessed with boring things: their deck, landing tricks, wearing baggy clothing, etc. They weren't even particularly funny. They had terrible handwriting. They had the attention span of a housefly. What's the appeal?
You know what it was? It was their attitude. Or rather, their terrible attitude. They did not give a fuck. And, I liked that. Unfortunately, they didn't seem to give a fuck about me, which I clearly didn't like. In the summer, I'd walk by Astor Place, a notorious '90s skater hang out in NYC, and I wouldn't even turn a head. Walking anywhere wearing a tank top in NYC is pretty much an open invitation for sexual harassment, so in a weird twist not receiving any attention from the skaters bummed me out. What? No takers? C'mon! Apparently, I'm skateboarder kryptonite. I even wrote for Thrasher for a spell in college, hoping to impress a skater down the line. I never even got the chance to namedrop that factoid to a guy on wheels! *shakes fist at sky*
I've never dated a skater which is a minor regret in my life. I dated an ex-skater once which was a bit of a thrill even though I never got to hear his wheels on the pavement rolling towards me. Whatever. I've learned to accept my fate. Skaters are like these mythical creatures that I will never get to observe up close, like a unicorn or a minotaur. So, skaters, I choose to reject you. I'm not interested in hearing about how you landed a front-nose-ollie-bagel-grab 960. Oh, who am I kidding? I totally want to hear about that. That actually sounds pretty awesome.
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