Betray the Lie

I press out and away, the rollerblades zipping under me.

The Atlantic Ocean glitters to my left, aqua blue and shimmering gold. This winding concrete path in Miami Beach is the perfect place to rollerblade. The most perfect.

Music pounds in my headphones, the beat driving me faster.

My dog, Blue, and two of his puppies, Nila and Frank, run beside me. Blue to my left, the younger dogs to my right. They are all on loose leashes, their strides long and steady.

I used to jog—loved it. But when in Rome...rollerblade.

My trainer, Merl, showed up with a pair of the ridiculous footwear a few months ago, and I laughed, which I hadn’t been doing much. “Funny enough,” I told him. “This is kind of my worst nightmare.”

He waggled his eyebrows and grinned his gap-toothed smile. “What? You’re too cool to rollerblade?”

“I had hoped so.”

“Just try them. You’re going to love it.”

And, as so often happened, Merl was right. I love rollerblading. So, I added it to the list of changes.

Old me: Named Joy Humbolt, foul-mouthed, quasi-alcoholic, pot-smoking dog walker.

Newer me: Named Sydney Rye, foul-mouthed, quasi-alcoholic, hash-smoking vigilante.

Newest me: Hallucinating, blacking out, foul-mouthed, teetotaling, non-smoking rollerblader.

Life is weird...and kind of wonderful.

P.S. The dog does not die.