The Day Before Competition

Tomorrow I have a figure skating competition. For as long as any of us choose to pursue this hobby, there will always come another day when tomorrow, there is a competition. And I’m sure I’m far from the only skater out there who has some FEELINGS about that. 

When I started figure skating again as an adult five years ago, I immediately knew I wanted to compete. I wanted my little chance to perform. I wanted the ice to be mine for two minutes. There are few things in life I find as appealing as a STAGE, so much so that when attending the theater or any other type of spectacle, I am generally afflicted with feelings of jealousy that it’s not me up there giving that monologue, twirling that pirouette, holding onto that high note.

Likewise, I typically dislike watching most sports because I would rather be playing them. Never mind that I can’t kick a ball to save my life; watching other people do it makes me want to go out there and try it more than anything.

The difference with figure skating competitions and other types of performances, I quickly decided after starting up with the whole business of it, is that the performance is being JUDGED by a panel of people. 

Now, I don’t know about you, but when I go watch stand-up comedy, even if the comic is mediocre, I am still inclined to laugh. As an audience member, I like to think of myself as forgiving and appreciative of the person up there who is putting themselves out there. Even though I am consistently infected with an obnoxious case of “I want to do that too”-itis, I am also grateful that there are people who have the guts to do what they do, the tenacity to work hard enough to get good enough to be there, and the vulnerability to present their art on any kind of stage. And so I laugh, to show my appreciation for their efforts (the recent Shane Gillis SNL faux-pas being an exception to this rule). 

And of course, judges are people too. And probably many of them are generous of spirit and kind in their observations, at least as many as the general population at large. (We are assuming the best in people, at least for today.) But they are JUDGING against a firm standard. And that freaks me out. Because the stakes are not necessarily high, but they ARE black and white. You either meet the standard or you don’t. And the only thing determining if you do or if you don’t is that one singular moment, that snapshot. 

Ay dios mío. 

Suddenly the ice looms cold and lonely. The sparkly dress is now a mockery of your hopes and dreams. A booming voice calls your name. You skate out onto the ice, alone, and assume your starting pose with a slight waver in your legs that you never have in practice. And then the music begins. 

When I think of this: the cold air, the unforgiving jumprope warmup and the makeup tight on my face—I want to retreat. Bury my face in my dog’s soft white fur and listen to his breathing. I dream of lounging in the couch in slouchy yoga pants with a cup of hot herbal tea with too much honey in it. Fleecy blankets and lived-in hoodies. I think of the feeling I have after a hot bath and a good stretch. Bergamot-scented body lotion. A freshly flipped pillow. Sean Connery-era Bond movies rocking me towards sleepiness with their familiar score, or something lesser-known from Brian De Palma. 

Why do I put myself through this? I think. Because wouldn’t I rather much have all of that than a 4:30 alarm clock and an upset stomach?

Well no, I guess not, because you know what I am thinking when I am drinking my sweet-ass tea and hearing the lesser-known “007” theme that plays during fights and chase sequences in early Bond? 

I’m thinking about how I’ll edit the music for my eventual James Bond program, that’s what I’m thinking.

Because of course I am. 

I’m thinking about how great Lara Naki Gutmann would do skating on a score from Italian film composer Pino Donaggio. Because 1981’s Blow Out has a straightforward plot, incredible cinematography and sound design, and a score that has no business going as hard as it does. In fact it’s strange to watch John Travolta’s unrefined line delivery (but unmistakeable movie-star charisma, let’s be fair) supported by music that would not be out of place in high opera. 

And I know she would do great things with that on the ice.

These are the things I think about when I am cozy and cuddly.

So I guess I need both. If I only had the cuddly-cozy, safe existence, I’m sure I would long for more. I would lament my basic-ass life, my lack of courage to put myself out there when I know it’s what I want to do. (We’re not getting into the why today; I just know I do want to compete. I just do.) 

Tomorrow will arrive, hopefully with me in it unless something terrible or unforeseeable happens between now and then. I will eat an early meal if I can stomach it. I will work my muscles as loose as they will let me with the nerves. I’ll fret about my hair and dress. I’ll pull on my skates with plenty of time to spare, since my skates are new and I’ll need to tie them and then retie them. I’ll step out on the ice with my warm-up group, willing a sense of heartfelt camaraderie to the others as hard as I can. I’ll perform all of my elements one at a time, going back to the ones that didn’t work as I wanted before the end of the warm-up. Then the warm-up will be over and the first skater will begin. 

I’m second in my group, which is ideal, because it means I can skate hard in the warm-up and still have time to recover before my skate, but it’s also not so much time that I’ll start to cool off again before I have to skate. I’ll have time to retie my skates if I deem it necessary.

Then it will be my turn, and I will skate as best as I can at that moment. A snapshot for the judges, a snapshot of myself.

And then it will be over.

I’ll go home and hug my dog and breathe in the outdoor smells trapped in his thick fur. I’ll tell him in a soft voice that I skated pretty, and he’ll thump his tail approvingly into the couch. 

Then I’ll change into some comfy yoga pants and we’ll watch James Bond on the couch and drink tea.