Chuck: That's a good idea. And you can just use the helmet you bought for biking.
Me: [Blinks and looks of confusion] Helmet? I'm not going to wear a helmet.
Chuck: Why not?
Me: I'm thinking like wrist guards and knee pads.
Chuck: Why don't you want to wear a helmet?
And here I'm stuck. There is nothing that I can say that won't sound like that old woman in those 80's PSAs for wearing seat belts. "But I don't want to wrinkle my pretty dress," she crowed. The next scene she's just a pale bag of bones, wires sprouting out of her like a human outlet strip. "Let me fix your dress for you, mom," her seat belt endorsing daughter says, ironically, smoothing the threads on the comatose body.
I have no idea why I don't want to wear a helmet, but it has something to do with a hot head and a cumbersome accessory. And besides, what if the other kids in the neighborhood make fun of me.
Me: It's not like I'm going to crack my head open rollerblading.
Chuck: Until you crack your head open.
I can skate. I've probably only wiped out twice in my life: once in college when I fancied myself a trick skater, and once last year when some little phucknuggets spread a branch out on the path and then waited to see what would happen. [I hunted those little rascals down and gave them mean looks.]
I can see wearing a helmet for biking. All that takes is imagining what it would feel like to get my head run over by a city bus. But I skate on trails. No buses, no hills, no walls, no anvils falling from the sky. ... No helmet.