Ah, high school—those glorious years of figuring out who you are while simultaneously trying to keep your parents from discovering that you’ve been to more roller skating rinks than Sunday services. My junior and senior years were a delicate dance of independence, Mormon standards, and the raging hormonal tornado that is teenage life. Imagine trying to juggle a flaming sword while riding a unicycle on a tightrope—it was about that level of difficulty.
You see, while I was still expected to uphold the high standards of my faith, my brain was busy plotting escape routes from the constraints of my carefully constructed Mormon bubble. Enter the roller skating rink: a magical place 30 miles away that seemed to promise freedom, fun, and—gasp—boys! Yes, those elusive creatures who seemed to be as complicated as rocket science and yet, somehow, far less likely to call you after a date.
So there I was, a hormonal teenage girl with a wild imagination and zero experience in the dating realm. When my friends and I discovered the rink, it felt like finding hidden treasure—complete with glitter, disco lights, and a side of potential teenage heartbreak. And boy, did we meet a lot of boys. Flirting hung in the air like cheap cologne, and I was like a deer caught in headlights. Flattered? Yes. Terrified? Absolutely. Picture a chihuahua trying to act tough against a pack of Rottweilers—that was me.
Now, let me introduce you to my roller rink crush: Rick. A cutie and a football hunk rolled into one, he was the embodiment of teenage heartthrob perfection. I had fallen for him—in that totally innocent, “I daydream about him in math class” kind of way. Holding his hand was the thrill of a lifetime—albeit, we were all of 17. We went out a few times, which felt like a victory on par with discovering a secret menu item at your favorite fast-food joint. Somehow, though, we managed to dodge all the typical trouble that comes with two teenagers in a low-budget romantic comedy.
One moment in particular still makes me laugh: we were like two awkward squirrels trying to navigate the same tree—clumsy, confused, and completely unsure how to avoid falling off a branch. We skated, we laughed, and we fumbled through conversations like two people trying to read Shakespeare while on a merry-go-round. There were plenty of chances for things to get steamier, but we were like two confused kids in a foggy maze—zero idea what we were doing, and too shy to ask for directions. I still laugh about it today.
In the end, nothing scandalous happened, and for that, I count myself blessed. It’s comforting to know that during those roller rink escapades, I wasn’t the only one experiencing a severe case of “What do I do now?” and “Is he really looking at me?” So here’s to teenage awkwardness, roller skating, and a time when the biggest decision was whether to hold hands or just stick to the pizza.
Molly's Not-So-Secret Diary 