Back when I was in my late 30’s, the same year sliced bread was invented, I was an adventuresome kind of gal. We had three kids, boys, full of all kinds of energy, good and bad, and athletic. So, when they asked about going to Haystack, a local skiing destination, I agreed that it would be a way cool family experience. There was only one problem.
I had nothing to wear.
“You can wear my old ski pants and jacket,” said husband. In his youth he’d been a speed skater. Even made it to one Olympic prelim. Medals all over the place. That’s how I met him. He asked me to skate. So I took up his suggestion and donned his vintage, before Gore Tex, ski ensemble. The pants were heavy brown wool and the coat, also wool, was bright blue. When I donned my gray fuzzy hat and black gloves I bore a startling resemblance to the Michelin Man off to his first clown rodeo. But once on the mountain, I was beyond toasty. I felt surrounded by happy children and inspiring winter scenery.
This mountain had an awesome bunny hill and a simple to use T bar. You know, grab the T, hang on and up the little hill you go. You glide up on your skies thus avoiding the possible disaster of plopping off the chairlift and doing a face plant in the snow. Really, looking like a big blue and brown marshmallow was bad enough.
Each of my guys took their turn with me. Once I let go of the T bar, one or the other would ski slowly down beside me to make sure I didn’t fall and become a human snowball. They all knew that Mom Was Not A Skier. Even hubby took a turn.
Under their tutelage I was doing pretty well. Had my “wedge” mastered – kind of. I was well padded, naturally and otherwise. On one of my runs I was feeling that I could go it alone now. This is how all those Olympic types must feel I thought as I breezed on down. I told my guys to go off to the big hill and I’d be okay on my own.
And I was for about two runs. On the third run I stopped at the top of the bunny slope and lined myself up to swoosh down towards the rope line and the T bar. I took a deep breath. I shoved off. I began to pick up a little speed as I went along. I became slightly alarmed but I had that wedge thing going. I could do this.
That’s when I spied her. A delicate little flower of a woman all dressed in perfect white ski garb standing primly in line with a light wind touching the fur trim on her jacket hood. Just charming. A bunny on the bunny hill. I wanted to be her.
As she moved slowly towards the T bar, I began to barrel clumsily towards her. I fought for control. Dang wedge! Faster now. I didn’t dare shout and imperil the bit of control I did have. “I’m going to take her out!” My terrified brain screamed. “Look out, Bunny Lady, look out!” I tried mightily to think of how a real Olympic champ would handle this. Nothing came to mind – because they are champs and I am not. A big fat zero would be coming up on that stupid electronic scoreboard for Michelin Girl Rodeo Clown.
As I was imagining profuse apologies and trying to think of what lawyer might take on my case something wonderful happened.
An arm swung out in front of me and stopped me cold just as I was within striking distance of Bunny Lady. My son Eric had seen my distress from afar and and zoomed heroically to my rescue. I heaved a huge sigh and instantly forgave him for all the crazy teen stuff he’d ever done (a lot!) hanging onto his proffered arm for dear life. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I do wonder, though, if there could ever be an Olympic event where a puffy circus clown and a bunny lady could do a ski ballet kind of thing. Probably not. Thankfully Bunny Lady doesn’t even know I exist.
Image: Free Digital Photos