I'm not a skier. In fact, if I ever decide to try this crazy sport again, I wish someone would lock me in the lodge with a margarita and not let me out. Yes, I've had lessons and yes, I know the basics, and no, I really don't care if I am able to make it to the bottom of a mountain intact. I've tested this particular skill more than once and have thus far ended up on the right side of fate but I think we can all agree there's no guarantee there.
I wish I was all perky and fearless, swishing snappily down slopes, waving gaily at friends, breathing in the cold winter air and singing tra-la-la all the way down ... but this is just not me. I am scared. It is not fun for me. And no matter how many times I vault myself down a mountain on wooden slats, I cannot see myself enjoying this.
That is my story and I am sticking to it ... until maybe the next time my boys want me to try it and I probably will ... Until I figure out they're doing that just to see me fall ...
|My boys, ready to ski.|
|Boys and their dad heading back down the slopes.|
|Hanging with mom at the lodge after skiing for six or so hours.|
|Margarita in the lodge for mom after two wicked wipe-outs. Ouch.|
|Dad got a few black slope runs before it was time to go home. Win/win/win.|