A little while ago, I mentioned that Thing 1 and I received a very cool Christmas present that didn’t come in a box. Mr. Knightley, being the most excellent husband and father that he is, gave us the gift of being able to be crazy outside of the house, not just in it, this winter. Oh yes, he gave us the gift of skiing/snowboarding lessons!
I have only lived in Utah for…let me count them up…20 years now, and this was my very first time skiing. Please, do not comment on how stupid or sad this is. I already know, thanks.
So on the historic day of January 16, 2012, Thing 1 and I embarked on our outing into the frozen wilds to learn how to fly down a mountain, hopefully without incurring harm to ourselves or anyone else. We rode the ski bus up to the winter wonderland known as Snowbird. We then proceeded to equip ourselves and lumber out to the lessons area, sans goggles in falling snow. The kind ski instructors then procured goggles for the witless acolytes, and we were ready. We ended up being in separate areas/classes, of course, since Thing 1 is a kid and I am not (even thought I act like one most of the time) and since Thing 1 was learning how to snowboard and I was learning how to ski. (I am not a fan of having both my feet connected to one movement device. I say roller skates and skis all the way. Thing 1, however, is a boarder through and through.) I cannot, therefore, tell you all that ensued for Thing 1. However, here’s what happened with me.
There was only one other student in my class, a guy who had been boarding and was switching to skis. Something to do with his wife, I think? Anyway, it was probably a good thing there was only one victim, I mean student, besides me since I can be a bit of a spaz at times and apparently being on a mountain with skis attached to my feet is one of those times. From the moment we got going, my ski instructor, a kindly Scottish? (I think—I couldn’t quite place the accent) gentleman, began his many reminders to follow him and enumerated the ways to have good control.
What I couldn’t adequately express, however, is that the blessing of the ski gods was upon me. They had blessed me to have speed. They had blessed me to find my own paths down the mountain. They had blessed me to maintain balance even in strange postures or on one ski. The thing they had not blessed me with, however, was good control.
And so, I tried. I tried valiantly to overcome the blessings of the ski gods with the greater power of control. Like a somewhat-less-dangerous Mr. Toad, I careened down the beginner run while avoiding trees, the hotel wall, and adorable little children in snowsuits. This was all a source of both great exasperation and great amusement to my instructor who, I guess, decided to like me as the spaz I am. (After all, I was kind of killing it for a first time skier—just sayin’.) He even nicely brought up my ski for me when I lost it while getting on the ski lift for the first time with Thing 1. (Those of you who are skiers and have gotten on a lift with an inexperienced snowboarder know the difficulties which can happen.) And I pleased him to no end when, by the end of our 2 and a half hours together, I could successfully and safely, mind you, follow him down the mountain, spanky nice turns and all.
And so, all in all, it was a fabulous time and I was super stoked about my new skiing skills by the end of the trip. My ego, however, was cut down to an appropriate size when I managed to get myself and Thing 1 onto the wrong ski bus and I had to confess the error of my ways to the very nice bus driver, who then told us how to get on another bus that would take us to where our car was at. I do not have a good track record about getting on the right bus. Oh, there is a story…But that is neither here nor there. I still have skiing skills, even if I can’t remember a bus number, thank you very much.
End part the 1st.
