It startles me to look at this blog again. It's been 289 days since my first and only post; my 2010 resolution to write more each day apparently took a dumper shortly thereafter. Good intentions but little time and an aging computer held me back, at least that's my story.
Shortly after the first post, I turned 56 years old. Our daycare duties keep us busy Tues/Wed/Thurs of each week, so my husband declared the Monday of my birthday week our 'celebration' day. He kindly mentioned three times that "We'll do whatever you'd like to do." He followed magnaimously with these suggestions: (1) a destination ski, (2) skiing at a small resort about 110 miles from our home and (3) skiing at the hill we can see behind our house just a few miles up the mountain. Sigh.
My husband, born a natural athlete, participated in many team sports beginning shortly (I think) after learning to walk. Baseball. Track and Field. Basketball. Quarterbacked his high school football team. Swims. Water skis. Can golf with the above-average rest of them. Hits a racquetball twice weekly with a new friend. In fact, the only time I've seen him fail at a new sport was over a quarter century ago in Florida where he tried self-teaching surfing. Of course, add to the list of skills, Downhill Skiing.
I, however, was born a klutz to parents who were 'old school' in many senses. Raised on farms where priority #1 was work, they didn't do sports. Neither were educated; my mom exceeded my dad in that she made it through 8th grade. They never participated in team sports of any kind. My mother never learned to ride a bicycle. Dad's athletic inclinations lent themselves to hunting and fishing, pursuits which both kept his feet planted pretty firmly on the ground.
Not only am I genetically programmed to also cling to terra nova, my schooling didn't propel me into the world of sport, either. The Catholic elementary school my mother insisted I attend didn't even have a gymnasium. Our "phys ed" class was called something else: recess. Graduating from high school in 1972, I unfortunately dodged the golden bullet of Title IX. My small secondary school offered one girls' "sport" -- cheerleading -- which I found then, and continue to believe now, rather pointless. Gym class consisted of nearly 60 girls dressed in prison grey/blue ill-fitting suits trying to make the best of limited time and opportunity. Sigh, again.
The winter of my 46th year, still living in Michigan, my husband became reacquainted with downhill skiing, something he'd rather abandoned during the years of raising our daughter -- too expensive, too little time, too much to do. With his invitation and knowing that failure would mean the "rapture" to me, ie, merely left behind as he took up yet another testosterone laden activity, I decided to give it a whirl.
My bit of advice to anyone preparing to learn a new sport -- don't let your spouse be your teacher. My first-time downhill ski adventure did provide me one 'gold star' in the school of life. Having experienced that first day, I will forever get credit for even trying again.
First off, instead of renting ski equipment for me, he borrowed some belonging to a friend's daughter. A young woman taller than me, heavier than me, a skier who liked to go fast. Aargh. As with most truly beginning skiers, my day's lift ticket promised many slips and spills. What I didn't expect was the totally humiliating and near-death experience coming the way of my whole family.
Having finally skidded and squealed my way to a second chair lift, the entire family lined up to get on board the three-seater (my daughter was part of this adventure). My hubby even noted to the lift operator that we had a beginner in the party. Of course, that kid was being paid minimum wage, it was sunny, blue skies and lots of cute snowbunnies around. . . why should he pay attention to us?
As I fearfully manuevered my way in the line, I saw the chair coming. I pushed off in the middle of husband and daughter and manipulated myself in front of the oncoming seat. Skis crossed. Entangled with the others'. We all fell off the lift chair in front of 50+ people. The operator, schmoozing with snowbunnies, doesn't hit the "off" switch. Next chair beans daughter in the back of the head. She screams. I cry. Husband yells. A truly lowpoint in the day's activities.
The years passed; I kept trying. A few successes along the way and some truly pleasant times. However, "sport" is not part of my psyche or my nature. Even dear husband noted that each winter, for me it's almost like starting all over. I have nearly overcome my chairlift anxieties (see paragraph above) but remnants rear their ugly heads to this day. I have not achieved the desire to go fast (although when my husband encourages me to 'go faster' I remind him this is not his advice when I'm driving a car). I simply cannot bring myself to 'get up on the edges' -- who wants to be on the edge of something while being propelled down steep hills at high speeds? Succinctly, downhill skiing goes against every grain in my body except one -- tenacity. And, ah, the irony of that.
So, in Feburary 2010 in quite the huff, I got dressed for celebrating my birthday by "doing whatever I wanted to do." We went skiing at the small area only three miles from our home. Now, I dislike the big ski resorts (fear of getting lost), but I really dislike the little one near us. Everyone who comments on the hill says the same thing "If you can ski there, you can ski anywhere." The reasons? They don't groom the hill very well and it is extremely steep.
Our first winter in the house, I actually signed up for and participated in, a women's ski clinic. Three group lessons, taught by women instructors only. I went for the companionship and afterglow (wine, cheese, fruit).
During the first session, we were all asked to state our ability levels. My response garnered a chuckle from the group "Reluctant blue." I attended all three sessions, but during the last one the lead ski instructor talked to our class. One thing he told us is etched in my brain. "We don't really have any blues here, we just have blue signs. Except for the beginner area all of our runs are truly black diamonds." AARGH!
So, on that day celebrating the birthday that would take me beyond double nickles, we skied. I was so angry that once again I'd let myself be pressured into doing for fun something I didn't want to do -- I took myself all the way to the top of the mountain by myself and skied down. Anger is apparently a good teacher. Maybe, just maybe, I could do this! But, probably not.
Late in the season, my husband eager and excited and believing 'first chair' equates to 'lottery winner' got me up there again. Why, oh why, don't I listen to my inner voice of reason? He talked me into going up to the top early in the day. My thought, knowing how the sun hits these slopes, ventured toward ice. But I bravely followed along. Yep, ice all right. On a narrow, steep, ungroomed run at the top of the mountain. I panicked.
I took off my skis in a foolish attempt to walk down. Skis dropped and went sailing ahead of me. I sat on my butt trying to skootch down. Nylon ski clothes resulted in sliding, rapidly, to the bottom. I finally came to a stop. A nice young man brought my skis to me, hubby arrived shortly thereafter. Again, anger, humiliation and frustration. Finally strapping my two fiberglass sticks to my feet, I was again upright and ready to make it down the mountain. Just as I prepared to push off, dear life-companion did as well. Only, not paying attention, he skied across the back of my K2 Luv's causing me to literally faceplant in the snow like some sorry but amusing cartoon character. The cliche "it was downhill from there" leaps to mind.
My one and only run that day was directly from the top of the mountain to the truck. Enough for me, thanks a bunch. Later that day I took a long hot shower -- it felt especially good on the line of bruises following my spine from neck to waist, courtesy of my sliding down the mountain. AARGH. Again.
A week or so later found me once more at the ski hill. Sunny blue skies, warm temps, groomed snow. My mind trying ever so hard to concentrate on some of the positive experiences I'd had skiing . . . and straying away from the near-disasters.
Standing in the beginner lift line, the shortest and easiest route to the bigger lifts, I was surrounded by middle-schoolers on a field trip. Next in line, the kid ahead of me moved. He stopped short. The chair lift stopped. I tried to end my forward movement. Fell over. Twisted me knee. Couldn't get up. In front of MIDDLE SCHOOLERS! A simple tip-over in the beginner lift line and I was done for the season. AARGH. Again.
Now, nearly a year later, my skis have not emerged from their case, the boots remain in the bag and my helmet rests on a shelf. Dear husband has hit a bump in his sporting world road. An old leg injury, the result of a log cutting incident, will result in a second attempt at outpatient surgery next week. If it fails, arterial bypass may be in his future. With a doctor's note, we returned our ski passes for the entire season.
With honesty, I can't say I miss it. In fact, turning in the pass was something of a relief. My personality is not that of a quitter; I am determined. I hate being the weakest link and resent being left behind. Yet, I'd nearly come to grips with the idea that I wouldn't quit this season, but rather give myself permission to move on. I've given ten winters up to becoming a skier. It's not going to happen and my level of enjoyment in trying has plateaued. Maybe it's time to merely move on and use what's left of my mortality and winters pursuing a yet-to-be-named other activity. But it does make me sad that Loved One is sitting this season out; I know how much he's missing it . . . and the hill visible from our window merely taunts him.
If we both must move on, at least we can do it together. And, we have snowshoes.
