Oh, Colorado. The land of snow-topped Rockies! The place of sub-$13.50 movies. And, of course, the territory of me saying "this is not my thing" three times more than I've heard that Subway jingle about getting breakfast made your way.
Since everyone assumed I was going to become an icicle corpse atop a ski mountain from these gangly legs and general weakness that makes heavy metal doors a challenge, I will say this: I did it. I fucking skiied down a big ass, full-fledged mountain.
Now, was it pretty? Holy hell fire, absolutely not. I cried no less than three times, tumbled onto myself when the downhill got too fast, had to be persuaded by my (actually brilliant) instructor that I would survive this, and pizza'd my way through the lower fifth of it. (For those of you who don't what that means, It's equivalent to training wheels.) I blew out my hip, couldn't balance my weight, couldn't maintain form and really didn't have the skill set or confidence after six hours of woooshing down the barely-sloped Panda Peak to conquer a fucking death-defying, Evergreen-filled mountain. I skiied THIS Colorado Mountain:
Now, I also thought that "going to the top mountain and skiing on the windy green road" meant we'd do a little skiing, lollygagging, and then whiz down the ski lift before spending $15 on spinach salads at the lodge, which is madness on my part. What comes up must come down, including a very, very reluctant yours truly. But, no matter what happened on that tree-specked terror ride, I did it. Whining and crying aside, I made it down, and that's what's going into the memory bank...along with an asterisk of fear and a mental warning to never, ever do this again, despite knowing I'll wind up having to give it another crack at the next wintertime boyfriend family fiesta.
And then there's ice skating, an activity I attempted to take up under the guise of "Hey, it's gotta be better than skiing!" which didn't quite add up. I was close to flyin' while using a child walker — do they make these for adults? I want one, NOW — but I couldn't skate without two hands death-gripped on its plastic carriage and even still, almost accidentally wiped out and ran down a child while using it.
But, fuck it. Skiing, ice skating, surfing, walking in high heels — I don't like feeling out of control of my limbs! So sue me. I've got out-of-whack feet, two sets of orthotics, a very high center of gravity and as you can tell, enough excuses for why I should just be allowed to chill on solid ground.
Other assorted items I'm not good at? Eating three square meals a day (I'm a SNACKMONSTER). Looking attractive in ski pants, which are pretty much a better muffin top maker than Easy Bake ovens. And Monopoly, which I played three days in a row, broke my life-long "no trade" clause and was tempted to end in pure Wisel fashion: flipping the board over, having my brother scream "DAAAAAD!!!!" and running into my room to evade punishment and paper finances.
Watching back-to-back episodes of Family Feud, having a popcorn lunch while being the only person in the house who enjoyed Les Miserables and feeling brave enough to order Blue Cheese Bone Marrow Butter off the steakhouse menu despite the slabs of meat already being cooked in butter? I got that shit on lock.
And, of course, looking like a twat atop a mountain:
All up on that Sulley shit, 'spose. The snow adds 30 pounds, too — promise.