The Weekly Ski Report
We went off skiing last weekend. And we went off skiing the weekend before, too. This is a HUGE AMOUNT OF GETTING OUT for us. Incredible, even. (On the other hand, it seemed like a good thing to do with all this snow we've been having.)
We even went to Taos and rented a house with some other families for a couple days. The kids - six of them, all told - appeared to have a great time running around and screaming. And no one - that I know of - slipped on the shiny wood floors or bonked into the many river rocks and flagstones that were placed strategically - beautifully, but strategically - around the rental house. (You know, instead of boring old marble countertops. Why not river rock! And flagstone! Right there at the end of the counter top, and by the sink, and thank goodness not at the bottom of the stairs.) I thought that was a wonderful success for the weekend, right there.
I even got to have a part of an afternoon to ski by myself. I was thinking at the time that it had been five years since I'd been. Actually, it had been six, if you start counting - as you would - from the winter I was actually pregnant with Little Big Girl. And that is, in fact, the longest I have ever gone without skiing, ever. From birth. See, because I started skiing at five and then skiied every year since and . . . you know, that whole thing felt a lot more amazing in my head and there's no possible way to spit it out succinctly or in a way that could possibly be as amazing to anyone else as it seemed to me. So never mind.
Anyway, the most amazing thing was just how OUT OF IT my skis were. Rather, the most amazing thing on the slopes that day appeared to be MY SKIS. They're so long! my chair-lift mates would say. And pointy! So long and pointy! How do you ski on those things? (As if the wide-angled contraptions they had strapped to their own feet weren't new in the last five (er, six) years and these long skinny things on my feet - which used to be a point of pride, not derision - weren't what the skiers had for the last sixty years....) And the best question of all: How old ARE those things? (Note: they actually had those wide-fangled skis on. With a sense of gratitude I could not possibly explain here (SCHHHHHHHHH of the snowboard sneaking up behind you and taking all the good snow off the bumps...and my thrill with this revealing my insane agedness...) Taos does not allow snowboards.)
And I'd look at my seat mate, and I'd do a little mental calculation. Hm. He's 18. I've been on these since....uh, fifteen years since law school, give or take a couple years in college...Pretty much they're your age, kid. They're the exact same age as YOU.
I felt like Rip Van Winkle.
Read more!
We even went to Taos and rented a house with some other families for a couple days. The kids - six of them, all told - appeared to have a great time running around and screaming. And no one - that I know of - slipped on the shiny wood floors or bonked into the many river rocks and flagstones that were placed strategically - beautifully, but strategically - around the rental house. (You know, instead of boring old marble countertops. Why not river rock! And flagstone! Right there at the end of the counter top, and by the sink, and thank goodness not at the bottom of the stairs.) I thought that was a wonderful success for the weekend, right there.
I even got to have a part of an afternoon to ski by myself. I was thinking at the time that it had been five years since I'd been. Actually, it had been six, if you start counting - as you would - from the winter I was actually pregnant with Little Big Girl. And that is, in fact, the longest I have ever gone without skiing, ever. From birth. See, because I started skiing at five and then skiied every year since and . . . you know, that whole thing felt a lot more amazing in my head and there's no possible way to spit it out succinctly or in a way that could possibly be as amazing to anyone else as it seemed to me. So never mind.
Anyway, the most amazing thing was just how OUT OF IT my skis were. Rather, the most amazing thing on the slopes that day appeared to be MY SKIS. They're so long! my chair-lift mates would say. And pointy! So long and pointy! How do you ski on those things? (As if the wide-angled contraptions they had strapped to their own feet weren't new in the last five (er, six) years and these long skinny things on my feet - which used to be a point of pride, not derision - weren't what the skiers had for the last sixty years....) And the best question of all: How old ARE those things? (Note: they actually had those wide-fangled skis on. With a sense of gratitude I could not possibly explain here (SCHHHHHHHHH of the snowboard sneaking up behind you and taking all the good snow off the bumps...and my thrill with this revealing my insane agedness...) Taos does not allow snowboards.)
And I'd look at my seat mate, and I'd do a little mental calculation. Hm. He's 18. I've been on these since....uh, fifteen years since law school, give or take a couple years in college...Pretty much they're your age, kid. They're the exact same age as YOU.
I felt like Rip Van Winkle.
Read more!