The Things We Do For Love!

So it’s Valentines Day and it makes me reflect on all things romantic and the stupid things we do for love.

I think back to the day when I relented and said yes to donning on a pair of skis. I was just newly married to my husband Mark, who was passionately involved with skiing.  His enthusiasm was such that he convinced me to give it a try.

In my early 40s, I never had the opportunity to learn the sport, and it was doubtful in my mind that at such an advanced age I could be taught. I figured it was at least worth a try and that it made me a good sport if nothing else! Besides, look at all the cute ski clothes I could wear!

After getting fitted for boots at the rental counter, which could qualify as medieval torture devices, they gave me short little skis and I was off to my group lesson.

“Well, here is where I leave you to experience your first ski lesson.” Good luck …and I hope you enjoy it,” Mark added wishfully. Enjoy it? I just hoped I’d survive it! Along came my instructor and my fellow classmates! Ok, it can’t be that bad. The kid in the purple Barney jacket can’t be more than six years old!  

The instructor, a cherubic faced young man, stood before us and proceeded to explain how we were going to make French fries and pizza wedges. Hey, they didn’t mention that lunch was included! I was soon to find out that these were the methods of making your skis go straight downhill and then stop.

We all obediently lined up and attempted to form pizza wedges with our skis. I guess it was a good thing to learn how to stop first, something one would probably find handy. Now it was time to make the French fries.

“Alright miss, it’s your turn,” said my teen instructor. “Oh no, I have to do this too?” Watching was so much safer. I dragged myself to the top of the mound, pointed downhill, and took off. Yikes, this feels like I‘m doing at least 85 and a state trooper should be pulling me over any minute! Oh yeah, stop! Pizza slice, whatever!! Somehow I managed to slow down as I came to a lurching halt at the end of the hill. Hmmm, this isn’t too bad.

After several “downhill races” we graduated to the bunny hill with a chair lift. “How does this chair thingy work?” I asked my “Bieberish” ski instructor.

“Don’t worry; I will take you on it several times until you get the hang of it.” It seemed easy enough. You simply sit on the chair as it comes around and step off of it at the end. Perhaps, this skiing gig wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

I gracefully lowered myself onto the seat and enjoyed the ride as it lumbered slowly to its destination. Oh wait, I have to get off at the end. How do I do that again? Panic set in like a bad rash. Alright, I’ll just jump off if I have to. Lift the safety bar and Geronimo!

With that, my ski jacket somehow got stuck on the chairlift and I struggled to free myself. As the chair began to swing around I catapulted forward into some poor guy who had jumped off before me. I lay on top of him in a heap as he shouted, “lady get off!”

I humbly returned to the beginners “mound” and waited to be collected. My husband walked over to me with an excited gleam in his eye and asked, “Well how did you do? Was it fun?”

I didn’t have the heart to crush his enthusiasm for me. “Um, fun could be a word for it!” Deep inside I was thinking to myself, “How could you make me do this?  I think one arm is longer than the other after it was yanked out of the socket from that rude chair lift!

I continued to go skiing over the next several years either out of stubbornness or stupidity and have become a fair intermediate skier! I figure though if he develops a passion for rock climbing he is on his own or has to wait for his next wife’s stupidity!

“Just kidding dear!”