Last night was Jen's birthday party at the Roxy, which she brilliantly planned on rollerskating night. We and several of our closest friends laced up orange-wheeled brown skates and whirled around the rink for approximately four hours. In between laps we took turns sitting in a big cushy booth, where we licked the frosting off Magnolia cupcakes, smoked cigarettes (wink wink), and quenched our rollerthirst with water and cocktails. I spent as little time in the booth as possible. Rollerskating is a lot like sex – once you start, you just can't stop.

While I whooshed around the rink to the hip hop and disco beats, I realized that the experience was a metaphor for life. As the tempo of the music changed I adjusted my skating accordingly – I had my speed demon moments, but I also took some leisurely laps when the DJ spun the slow stuff. The throng of fellow skaters multiplied during the best songs, making navigation on the tiny rink difficult, but at the same time exciting. You had to be constantly aware of those around and careful not to misstep. The seasoned skaters looked out for the novices – those who lost their balance were held steady by the arms of strangers; those who fell were quickly helped up. As the evening wore on the crowd dissipated, giving us who remained more room to freestyle. I tried some new moves and cornered with confidence, less conscientious of those around me and happy in my solitude.

As the landscape of the night morphed around me, and my participation within it (fast then slow, ecstatic then cautious), one thing remained the same. I was going around in a circle the whole time. It felt like I skated for miles, and maybe I did. But everything transpired in a very small space – again, and again, and again. Every time I passed the birthday booth, I was happy to see my friends there. They changed throughout the night (some moved about the club, some joined me on the rink) – but there was always someone there. And as much as I enjoyed the skating, and as much as I enjoyed skating alone – they were the reason I was there. Even if I was going around in a big circle, my skating was improving, and I had people I loved by my side.

Perhaps I'm reading too much into it, but maybe that's all life really is. We exist in a very small part of it – not just in terms of space but in terms of time. The cities and towns that are the realm of our existence are specs on the map of the known universe. Our lifetimes, which to us seem so long, are merely a hiccup in history. We go to school, go to work, go on trips, go to birthday parties… but we’re still on this little patch of space and time that we’ll never transcend in one lifetime. If you have wonderful people – loved ones, as well as strangers – to share the experience with, they have a way of making you feel as if your roller rink is the size of the Indianapolis Speedway. That your life is something bigger than a couple of coordinates on the map of space and time.

And if that’s all life is, I think it's worth every minute, every precious lap around the rink.