In August, I was positive that I was going to buy a season ski pass for this year, and I began saving my pennies. Then in September, as winter got closer and the memory of last year’s knee injury began to refresh, I decided that maybe I would just get a discounted four-pack of lift tickets. So I used some of those saved pennies to buy a pair of black Mary Jane pumps instead. Then, Mike looked sad when he heard that I wouldn’t be joining in all of the fun, so I said I would get two four packs so I could ski with him eight times. It was a compromise. Then, in October when the first snowstorm hit, I changed my mind and thought, maybe I would pass on skiing altogether this year and just work out at the gym every time Mike went skiing. I would spend this year getting back into great shape and then test out my knee next season; plus, I could surely get some of those trendy riding boots with the money I would be “saving”. Then November hit, and the purchase deadline for four-packs and season passes loomed. I felt an urge. I drove down to Colorado Ski and Golf to wait in line dutifully to purchase one four pack; I had made my final decision that I would ski four times for the season to make sure I still could and then get back into it seriously next year when I wasn’t so scared.
As I got closer to the front of the ski pass line I started berating myself for being such a baby. I had one bad fall out of many fun ski days, and here I was about to waste most of the weekends of ski season inside at 24Hour Fitness instead of outside in the fresh air with my friends. I thought of the gorgeous, twinkly days. I thought of the hilarious, two-hour car rides up and down I-70, the ones when someone inevitably has too pee on the side of the highway and someone else inevitably gets a snapshot of it. I thought of how, this year, I might improve my skiing to a point where I would impress the pants off of Mike instead of always having to ask him for pointers. I thought of the après ski beers and the laughs at the lodge and the President’s Day weekend trips where we all rent a house and ski and party until we are so worn out that we all end up just sitting around staring silently at the fireplace with stupid smiles on our faces. I even thought of my cute helmet, ivory with pink and blue flowers on it, and the perfect way it contrasts with my chocolate brown ski jacket. I was thinking about all of these things instead of the task at hand, and in my sudden onset of ski-season fever, I slapped down my credit card and purchased a full 5-mountain season pass for $449.00, just like the one Mike and all of my friends already had in their hot little hands. I know, it is ridiculous, but this expensive investment is just part of living in Colorado. At least it is now.
I grew up in Colorado after my dad’s company relocated us here from Illinois in the late 70’s. I was two when we moved here and honestly, minus a couple of wanderlust years in college, I have never wanted to live anywhere else. The weather, with its dazzling sun and sparkly blue sky is amazing, the activities are too many to count, and the people here are some of the nicest I have ever encountered. I am a Colorado girl through and through, and I have the muttly dog, the beat up SUV, and every brand of hiking boot, camping gear, and 80 SPF sunscreen to prove it. However, I somehow managed not to become a skier until I hit my late twenties.
My dad is from the Midwest where it is flat, and my mom was from Ireland where it is an island. Neither of them had skied growing up, and so it was never that important that my sisters and I learn. Then, when I was about 10, I discovered swimming, and it was my sport. I swam on summer leagues and my school team during the winter, and I never really felt that compelled to give up a day at the pool in order to be out in the cold doing something that looked insanely dangerous.
I tried skiing once in junior high. A cute 8th grade boy organizing a trip to the slopes was my rationale behind trying a sport like skiing in the middle of my unwieldy years. This was a time in my life when my feet had already grown to accommodate what would be a 6-foot-1-inch frame long before said frame actually got there. I spent half of that day sprawled in the snow freezing my awkward little ass off and vowed that I would never waste my time, not to mention three weeks allowance, on skiing again. I stuck with swimming where I was graceful and quick like a fish. You can’t fall when you’re swimming; even if you’re a major klutz like me.
Four years ago, I met a group of girls who had just moved out here from Chicago. We all got to be pretty decent friends, and they were all getting a Learn-to-Ski Pass so that they could, in fact, learn to ski. They tried to talk me into it, and I declined, relaying the story of the ski trip from my youth and the damage it had inflicted on my fragile 13-year-old psyche. They weren’t buying it. Of all the people they had the opportunity to make friends with in Colorado, they had chosen the one who knew nothing about skiing, and they weren’t about to let their bad luck affect their good time. Within a couple of days they had me talked into it; I was going to ski if it killed me, which it totally could. So I pretended to be new to the state just like my girlfriends, and we all purchased our Learn-to-Ski packages. I took two lessons, and I was hooked. I became a skier; I became a slope-bunny; I became very angry with myself for wasting so many years not doing something that is so much fun.
The next year I met Mike. Mike has been on skis every winter since he was three years old. He looks as comfortable on skis as he does just walking around the house, and he moves with more speed and grace than I feel like I could ever muster, even when I’m in the pool. Skiing is like breathing to him, and deciding whether or not to get a season pass has never even crossed his mind. He moved here to go to college and to ski, and he never left.
Up until my fall last year, he was patiently teaching me tricks and tips to make me a better skier, and gradually, I was getting more and more comfortable. We were having such a great time together and he was such a great teacher. That last day I skied last year was the first time I really felt like a real skier, like I had truly earned my right to call myself a Coloradoan. Then, that afternoon, I fell. That was January, and I sat out the rest of the season. I was already in a bad funk that year, and skiing was one thing that made me feel free and happy, like I was a real person again, not some depressed sadsack who would never get over losing her mom. My funk came back quickly and I spent the next two months in serious pain, wearing a huge knee brace, and feeling really sorry for myself.
Yesterday I hit the slopes again for the first time since that day last January. The first lift ride up, I felt sick. I was nervous, and it suddenly seemed like the worst idea ever. It became apparent that, while my knee was better, I had yet to grow my balls back. Why should I risk falling and injuring myself again? Why should I risk not being able to go to the gym, or take my dog for a run, or play sports? Why would I want to rack up another $400 in insurance co-pays? The lift reached the top of the hill, and I carefully slid to the flat area at the top of the slope. I bent to buckle my boots still thinking this was the about the dumbest thing I could be doing. Then I saw three little kids whoosh by me laughing and shrieking, their little cheeks bright pink, their eyes smiling behind the orange plastic of their goggles. They were not thinking about torn-up knees or medical bills. They were having a blast.
I skied the first hill tentatively and spent the day on the easy slopes. I was being careful, but I was having the time of my life. Even as one of the slowest skiers on the hill that day, I still felt free and happy. As I made my vigilant turns down the hill in the direction of Mike waiting patiently below me, I laughed and shrieked. My cheeks felt hot and pink, and my eyes felt as if they were smiling behind my goggles. I ski again. I ski towards the sun on my cheeks and the crystals of snow hitting my nose. I ski towards the love of my life and an ice cold Coors Light at the bottom of the hill. I ski towards a smaller backside and thinner thighs. I ski, and there is nothing else like it in the world. I can’t wait to get up there again next weekend.