November is the month of gratitude. I have a lot of things to be grateful for. Some are longitudinal – I’m thankful for my children and my family, for our health, for our lives, every day. Other things are situational. This week, I was grateful to be able to claim I’ve skated with the Warrin’ Wrecking Dolls.

Well.

I’ve gently propelled myself on borrowed skates, in borrowed socks, wearing borrowed safety equipment while the Dolls blew circles around me.

I’m grateful for safety equipment.

I used to skate all the time. I mean, as a kid, up until about high school age, I can remember hanging at the Russell Roller Rink on Friday nights, drinking concoctions of soda called things like “graveyard” and “villain.” I had no fear of falling, and rarely did.

Really, guys. I was good. I mean I couldn’t do any of the fancy pants stuff but I could go on one foot. I could cross one foot in front of the other. I could skate all night.

Well, until ten.

My curfew was ten, so.

I could skate until ten.

According to my mom.

But then in high school I started doing other things. Like skipping school. And smoking cigarettes. And listening to Bone Thugs and Harmony.

I don’t want to talk about it.

Look, the point is, I wasn’t planning on skating Tuesday night, when I went to the Warrin’ Wrecking Dolls meeting of interest. Hi, my name is Stacey and I’m just here to listen.

But they were so friendly.

And a little pushy. In a good way.

I really wanted to skate but I had my excuse all laid out, neat and tidy. Ready to go. Like my school clothes the night before.

Until the Bone Thugs and Harmony era.

I didn’t wear any socks.

Sorry, guys, I’d love to show you how great I am at landing on my face but, darn it all to heck, no socks. Bummer.

Yeah. The Dolls are a friendly bunch. Friendly enough to loan me some socks. Thanks, Kristen “Laser” Chase. Please don’t be offended by the odor of your socks when you get home.

In my defense, I tried to warn you.

I actually had “Shotgun Shell” – I’m sorry, I did not catch your real name – hold my hand as I stepped one unsteady foot after the other onto the floor.

To put it in perspective for you, my four-year-old declines assistance getting on the rink floor when I take her roller skating. She doesn’t just decline assistance she will physically attack you like a drunk raccoon for trying to impinge on her ability to get her little hiney out there all on her own.

She also falls less.

Four times in approximately five minutes, y’all. That’s my plunge average.

Represent.

But one of the things that was said at the meeting of interest was that the team won’t baby you, but they also won’t let you fail for lack of skills. If you have the willingness, the motivation, and the drive to learn to skate like a killer, they will teach you all you need to know.

Even after my lackluster performance they insisted I “had it.” and that they could have me skating as well as them in six months.

My money is somewhere more in the neighborhood of six years.

But the other thing I noticed, as I waddled myself along in the “safe” zone at the center of the floor, slow, like a freaking toddler, is that every time I did biff it there was at least one Doll right behind me, if not more, with a hand out to help me up.

I don’t know. I’m not a member of the team, and though I desperately fancy myself roller derby material – I’m actually not afraid to fall or get hit, which may either be a sign of fierce resilience or delusional security – there is no way I can ask my poor mother, who already does more than she should have to for me due to my work schedule, to watch my kids so I can go beat some chicks up on roller skates.

But I did get a sense of the other thing that was said by every Doll I talked to: it’s a sisterhood. It’s a community of women whose goal is to empower more women. It’s to create a group of women who are friends as much as they are teammates.

It’s intimidating for a lot of women to walk up on a group of other women, especially a tight-knit group of women whose relationships and hierarchy are all solidly bonded already, and try to work your way into a niche within that group. Women are rough on one another. Women scare me more than most men.

And most drunk raccoons slash four-year-olds.

But these women genuinely seem like they want to help every woman who comes to them be the best she can be, both individually and on the track. Which makes me want to be one of them. And lay a socially appropriate smack down on any jammer fool enough to try and breach their blockers.

Like every Doll I spoke with said either right before or right after citing camaraderie as their favorite things about the team, I too end many of my days with a powerful lust for hitting people.

Although, delusional as I may be about the fact that falling “ain’t so bad,” I am in no way delusional enough to think that, even though I got a chance to fill her socks, I could ever fill Laser or any of the Dolls’ skates.

But I’m grateful they let me play with them for a minute.