That's me.  Not in the corner, but under the disco ball that hangs from our practice rink, wondering why this odd crop of circling girls don't wear lip gloss or tight jeans, or feather their hair with TUSH combs from back pockets.

We don't even care about flattering lighting: no flashes or shadows, just bright-ass glare that showcases every sweat bead--scratch that. 'Bead?' Every sweat pool that breaks into rivulets and streams down our faces, necks, backs, and both sets of cheeks. Disco-ball skating on a Friday night meant caring about how we looked, but the form we care about now is very different: it's functional. Perfecting a derby posture equates to strength on the track; economy of motion translates to speed; staying small means your pieces don't get smashed over if you take a fall. Good form means my head should be over my skates in this picture, not slightly in front of them, but I'm getting there.

I am on cloud nine after tonight's practice.  This, after five hours' sleep last night, a long day in a cube, co-worker's retirement party, and emergency trip to Meijer because I forgot to pack practice clothes when I left the house this morning.  I wound up with a sport skirt from Meijer (and some herbed cheese with fancy crackers for the retirement party), so practice started off a little odd right from the start, what with me all skirted and feeling conspicuously girlie.  In fact, I forgot to take off my work jewelry, and halfway through practice Flaishans noticed and started calling me Donna Reed.

I have a day job. The kind involving cubicles, birthday celebrations in conference rooms, and co-workers who assume I grocery shop. My corporate persona is bubbly and polished and decorated in pearls. I am happy to be a respected corporate trainer. But there are other chunks of who I am... just look at my refrigerator.

Roller derby is waking up the scrappy 3rd-grader in me. The one with scabby knees, climbing trees. The girl whose personality dominated gender; whose interest in a boy depended on how interesting he was, not what he thought about her. A spunky tomboy full of power, unfettered by doubts. Oblivious to other-imposed expectations. Following the moment. Alive. Sweating from hard work, with a team of girls, nobody giving a s**t about make-up or hair or sucking in stomachs... I'm discovering a new level of beauty in women. In myself.