On Saturday, Susan took me out to get a long-overdue birthday present -- a new pair of hockey skates. I'm nowhere near being a competent ice skater, but for the last year or so I've been using a pair of old men's figure skates purchased for about $10 in the used bin at a local sporting goods store. They had about as much ankle support as a pair of tassel loafers and were roughly as attractive. I kept trying to lace them up more tightly in the vain hope that, corset-like, a good binding might translate into more support.

What I most enjoyed about having my own skates was the walk to and from the rink. You can't help but feel a little jaunty when you stroll to the rink with your own skates slung over your shoulder. Generally, all that pride and stylishness come to an abrupt end when I strap the skates to my feet and venture out on the ice. While Susan literally skates rings around me, I focus on maintaining verticality and self-respect. Often one must be sacrificed for the other.

After a while, I began enjoying ice skating, much in the same way that I now savor the masochistic activity of running. We usually go to the winter rink at Pershing Park, possibly the nicest place to skate in DC. A mere block from the White House, the tiny rink occupies the sunken space of a warm-weather fountain. The rink is too small to really offer much to the serious skater, and so it's generally populated by small children and families. Many of them, astonishingly, skate worse than I do, which I really appreciate.

We headed to a skate shop in NoVa where Susan could get her skates tightened up a bit and I could get my new pair. Last time we were there, we waited behind a pack of showbiz parents and listened with mounting horror as they blatantly attempted to impress each other with the achievements of their own personal competitive offspring. It was a monstrous scene. This time, the place was nearly empty, and before long I was strolling out with new skates slung over my shoulder.

Even in the store, the difference between the old and the new felt dramatic. We hurriedly drove back downtown and parked in the Ellipse to walk to Pershing Park. Once again, I enjoyed the stroll with the skates over my shoulder, jauntily passing curious tourists who probably had no idea they were so close to one of the best hidden gems in DC. At the rink we discovered we'd be sharing the ice with a small church group, but a few extra people hardly seemed to matter as I laced up and prepared to look foolish again.

As usual, the rink was tinnily blaring an assortment of tunes with an oddly urban angle; early selections ricocheted between the cheesy "99 Luftballons" to Wyclef Jean. Later, we lurched into an extended Jimmy Buffet rut, culminating in the wondrous spectacle of the youthful church group spinning 'round the rink to the sounds of "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw." No one seemed to notice.

Once I adjusted to the slightly shorter blades, the new skates were a dream. Verticality was suddenly within my reach, as well as a measure of speed and fine control. It was almost as if I could blame past equipment for my own shortcomings. I was so enamored of the experience that I made Susan come back with again Sunday for a repeat performance.