Busta Move

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To Busta Rhymes

Again, I was 13, skating up Hickory Road with my headphones on, till the lovely Mrs. Strauss stopped me to ask if rollerskating was hard to do with sneaker-skates; they were all the rage in 1978 and she probably was wondering if she should buy a pair.

And then I was 15, skating in front of our second cousins' house in Beit Herut, Israel, as my same-age cousin faced the speakers toward the windows while "Give Me the Night," one of the summer's American hits, blasted on the radio.

And I was 22, 'blading up and down the Chicago lakefront, grooving with my trusty Walgreen-purchased Walkman.

And 31, 'blading to Maxwell in an empty parking lot in Montclair.

And 36, 'blading jauntily along the Thames River in a London suburb during a business trip.

And today at 44, with pure pleasure, 'blading nearly the length of Grove Street and back in Montclair on a Saturday morning, since it had just been freshly paved.

Everywhere I've ever skated, I've always felt free, sexy, graceful, sassy, fluid, lithe, high, endorphin-pumped, powerful, proud, competent, rhythmic, coordinated, deliriously happy....

And then arriving home all sweaty this morning, I performed in front of our house on a street that hasn't been paved in 13 years, and Pat filmed it. And I was only silly and funny, skate-dancing to a Busta Rhymes hit -- always funniest when I least mean to be. And maybe that's how I always look, just silly, but I will always feel how I feel.