Here it is, Resurrection Day, and I couldn't even Rise from the bed.
I'm so sore. My hamstrings are sore, my back is sore, my neck is sore, my lungs are sore. That little "C" of skin between my index finger and thumb is sore. The curve of my bellybutton is sore. My eyestalks are sore. My nosehairs are sore.
After a strong evangelical effort failed to convert our children to the Church of Skientology, the husband turned his crazy eyes on me.
"Can't wait to ski with my honey! We'll have a skiing date! We'll start out on the Snubber, and then we'll take the SuperQuad up to Tote Road and ski all the way down together! I'M SO PUMPED, BABY!"
This is what I have to deal with, people.
In case you're wondering who filmed that little Vacationland promo, it was him. While he was skiing. (Be grateful for the goggles, because they're the only barrier between you and the crazy eyes.)
So there I was, out on the Snubber (don't ask) with my MIL's ski outfit from 1986.
Yes, I am gnawing on my knuckles. And not because I'm afraid someone's going to make a pass at me because I'm so hot. It's because I'm a terrified skier.
I've skied many times. Many terrified times. I keep skiing because I'm so certain that one time I will ski unterrified, but it hasn't happened yet. I'm like a junkie who keeps using based solely on the recommendations of other crackheads.
Many have tried to tinker with my technique, but I find that the "keep upright by sheer muscle lockage" works just fine for me, thank you very much. Yes, it's quite possible that complete and utter tissue rigidity for prolonged periods of time in frigid temperatures may have something to do with the next-day soreness, but I'll take that over broken bones anytime.
Here is an example of my inner monologue while skiing:
"GodGodGodGod–I'm MOVING!! NONONONONONO lockyourkneesWait Hesaiddon'tlockyourkneesButImustlockmyknees SNOWPLOW!SNOWPLOW! SNOWPLOW!FORTHELOVEOFJESUSSNOWPLOW! Edge! Wedge! Pizzaslice! Don'tthinkaboutLiamNeesonsWifeDon'tthinkaboutLiamNeesonsWifeDon'tthink aboutSonnyBonoDon'tthinkaboutSonnyBonoDon'tthingaboutthatguyonWideWorld ofSportsTheAgonyofDefeatSNOWPLOW! SNOWPLOW!It'sEasterTomorrow BeMercifulJesusSNOWPLOWWWWWWWWWWW!!
This, while 3-year olds whiz past me and old women so gnarled they look like they morphed out of the tree trunks call out to their ancient husbands, "I'll meetcha on the moguls, Morrie!"
And yet, I persevere. Yes, for my beloved husband who would probably burst into happy tears if I ever made it past the beginner's slope, but also for me. Because it's hard and I can't do it and it baffles me. And if you know me, you know how I love hard and baffling and impossible. That's the best stuff of life.
Of course, the best stuff of life would be a whole lot better in a ski outfit from this century. Drop a hint to Crazy Eyes.
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