Tonya Harding vs. Nancy Kerrigan redux

Don’t trust her: Nancy Kerrigan on the outside, raging Tonya Harding bitch underneath.

Don’t trust her: Nancy Kerrigan on the outside, raging Tonya Harding bitch underneath.

Christmas songs blare and twinkle lights sparkle as my boyfriend and I lace up our skates at the Midtown Ice Rink Monday night.

I tout my awesome ice skating skills and my boyfriend laughs.

“Oh yeah, are you going to get all Tonya Harding on me?” he asks.

“Are you crazy? Nancy Kerrigan,” I assert.

“What? You’d rather be the victim?” he responds.

Well, no one wants to be the victim. In Skate Land, with its oodles of holiday cheer, perhaps it is better to be the good one.

But in the real Christmas-season world, we need to know when to play the victim and when to lay it down.

Braving the parking lot at Arden Fair mall on Saturday required Nancy Kerrigan good-girl behavior. I personally have gotten into the habit of meditating on the drive to the mall. It’s kind of like a mix of Lamaze and a guru on tape: I breathe in deeply and tell myself in a calming voice that people are going to cut me off and I will be forced to park in BFE. Sometimes it works; other times, it’s like Dr. Jekyll trying to subdue Mr. Hyde.

Once I’m in the mall, however, it’s time to channel Ms. Harding’s ruthlessness. The world of Christmas shopping is cutthroat, and sacrifices must be made.

An essential technique in the Harding-shopping arsenal includes sniffing out competition and swooping in on that last knitted scarf before anyone else reaches it.

So, this Monday night was slated to be another evening of Christmas shopping, but I couldn’t handle it. So my boyfriend and I first headed to Original Pete’s at 20th and J streets for dinner and a beer. Only, it was $2 pint night. What would Tonya Harding do? Take advantage of that shit and get her drink on.

A couple hours later, bellies full of IPA, we cross over to the Midtown Ice Rink for some winter festivities. Channeling my inner professional ice skater is harder on an actual rink. I do, however, manage to master a few tricks. Flailing my arms around while trying to maintain balance receives a solid seven score. Falling on my rump when I try to stop gets an 8.2. Skidding on my beer-filled belly at the feet of three strangers definitely garners a 10—and I have the scabs to prove it.

I’m not sure who wins in the crazy Christmas season: the cutthroat Harding or sweet Kerrigan. Perhaps it requires a bit of both personalities to make it through the holidays. But Christmas activities, no matter how painful, are better with a jolly belly of beer.