At the time, I thought it was a good idea. Besides, they don’t let you into “Ski Wee” if you are almost forty. So, my son said he’d teach me.
“It’s easy Mom!” He said. I smiled. Well, I did cross country ski, at one time. In the distant past. So distant I can’t remember when it actually was. Another time, I did attempt to downhill ski, joining in a group, led by our fierce ringleader, my friend’s Dad. He was a champion skier, likely doing moguls at two. As I faced down the massive hill in front of me, he offered a word of advice.
‘GO!”
and then he pushed me.
Later I found out that this was just his teaching style. Small consolation, as I bombed down the hill screaming “Get out of My WAY!” There was a flash of white and a bit of air-time, before I was suddenly facing the sky, clouds moving lazily above, unimpressed. I spent the rest of the time drinking in the ski chalet watching football, as one of my ankles swelled into a grapefruit.
But, what the hell, right? We live on the side of a mountain. It would be shameful of me to not try, as many people would give a limb to be this close to such magnificent beauty.
Friday, I tried. It was a Pro-D day at school (I have no idea what actually goes on for the teachers on these days off, I suspect they pretend to learn new things, break for tea, and spend the rest of the day talking about what little sods our kids are) so I had my son at home. We decided to go for it. I followed him on the bunny hill, trying out “the pizza.” This is ones attempt to bring the skis together in the front, stopping forward motion. Okay, yeah. Did that. Check. Then, slowly, side to side movement, with a bit of “french fry.” -parallel skis. Why we name these things after junk food is just a sure sign of the times, but I get it. Hey, I’m good! Who knew? What’s next?
A bigger hill. I can see only a part of it, so I ask with some trepidation,”Um, you’ve been down this before, right?” he had. Several times. How hard could it be?
We start out well, gliding effortlessly down the first hill. This is awesome! I love this! And then the next hill comes, and the next, and ohhhhhh Shite, I am not slowing down very well. PIZZA< PIZZA! I think, do your stupid pizza already. But my pizza is not working. Suddenly rudimentary math flashes through my head, something about weight/height/velocity. Oh yeah, my son is roughly 1/3 my weight. Damn.
I hear the voice of Star Trek’s Jean Luc Piccard saying, “engage, ENGAGE!” But any butt muscles that were supposed to engage are sitting there, laughing, thinking about pizza and french fries.
I opt to slow down in the most glorious way possible, the snowbank under the lift.
WHAM! I try to sit/slide into it, try to channel early skateboarding moves, but basically I just face plant into it. Some lift-riders check on me.
“You alright?”
“Yup, Fine! That was a good one eh?” I throw in the eh, hoping to become just another ordinary Canadian, slamming into a snow bank, happens all the time, eh?
“Specatacular!” They say, confirming the worst.
And then, we do it again, only the next snow bank is less forgiving and suddenly I feel really really old, and like I have perhaps been run over by a truck.
“Mom, Mom!” You okay? My son’s eyes are like saucers. He is confused as to why I can’t do this and scared because I keep running into snow banks. I swear under my breath and then he starts crying.
“Don’t cry! We aren’t done yet!” I am stressed, and not being very nice.
“I am going down on my butt, okay? You follow me and we will meet right…there,” I point to a spot near a fence about a thousand miles away.
He agrees, and I descend on my right butt cheek, left ski as rudder. I am…amazing. I am the world’s Ultimate Champion Ass-Skier. We meet up and he is laughing, and I am laughing, as we ride the lift back to the bunny hill. “Oh yeah, Mom? I forgot to tell you to go side to side doing the pizza, slowly.”
Once at home, I relay the news to my husband, who informs me I have only a minor sprain of the MCL in my right knee.
“If this were me, would you have told me I was being stupid?” I smile.
“Yes. Idiotic even.”
“Okay, just checking,” he says, passing me the Ibuprofen.
Tomorrow, I have my first lesson. With an instructer older than 7.