Well, not really. I haven’t done anything but drunk limbo for many years, and only on a very limited basis. I’ve been restricted from it by my chiropractor anyway, due to degenerative disk disorder. But, for some reason, I have been thinking about my limbo days as a young girl in the middle of nowhere. At none other than The Roller Ranch. A place that all the folks from my small town, Kearney Nebraska, will remember fondly along with me.
When we were kids, everybody who was somebody went to the Roller Ranch. It was smelly, and everything had a light coat of oil on it, and I still remember that smell, but to this day, I can’t place exactly what it was.
Those were the days when kids wore skates. You know, roller skates.
They looked kinda like ice skates, but instead of blades, they had WHEELS. Isn’t that cool? That was back in the day when a kids favorite toy was his own body–and I mean that in a good way, not a creepy pedophile way–you could use it to run, jump, play, frolic, cavort and do all kinds of fun things kids just don’t do anymore.
It was sort of like a dance, but even more awkward than a dance, because we were all on wheels. We all wore our Lip Smackers, had our hair in the Farrah Flip, and we were all shaking our bootie in our Calvins.
And let me remind you, this is a small town and this WAS junior high school. We were good girls. Nothing came between us and our Calvins except our cute bikini panties with smiley faces all over them.
Yep, there I am. What a cutie pie I am! I didn’t do the limbo on my smelly rented skates in that little ensemble, but it was always the highlight of the evening. We waited and waited for the limbo. It was a big event. There were probably two or three hundred kids there every Friday night, and time stood still when it was limbo time.
Chubby Checker’s voice would belt out over the stratches on the old record and the girls would all squeal and line up. The boys, trying to look cool, would line up too. To sit out of the limbo was a mark of shame. If you didn’t do it, you went home, and you never went back.
You had to wait what seemed like an eternity. And you better hope you didn’t fall on your ass when it was your turn. That was long before the phrase “epic fail” was coined, but those who took a spill on the rink floor were ground up in the hallways, locker rooms and cafeterias of our school on Monday mornings. I can proudly say that I don’t remember every falling on my chic denim clad ass when attempting the limbo.
As I sit here, getting older by the minute, I remember how I used to do so many things that would surely kill me now. It seems like all I have to do is walk to the medicine cabinet for a swig of Geritol and another bunion splits out of my foot if I’m not wearing my orthopedic shoes. The roller skates are long gone, but I just may get me one of them fancy Teeter Hang ups to save money on the decompression treatments for my back. I saw that the old Calvins are being sold again, and I just may have to buy some, because one thing in my favor is I actually wear a smaller size than I did in my Roller Ranch days.
I have very fond memories of those smelly, oily, wheely Friday nights, and I’m sure a boy or two went home with lips that were a little too shiny, and smelled a little too much like Dr. Pepper, but not from me. My flavor of choice was root beer.