“See?” he said, coming to stand in front of me with a silly grin overwhelming his face. “You did it. Fun, right?”
We weren’t quite at fun yet, but I was starting to get a taste for it.
“Again,” I told him.
So once more, we trekked up to the top of the bunny slope with the children. I felt like a giant standing up there, the munchkins scooting around me at knee height like they were born on skis while I clumsily waddled about. At the daunting peak, I took a moment to adjust my goggles and gloves again. Nothing quite fit right and none of it was exactly comfortable.
“Come on! Let’s go already!”
The rude exclamation came from a freckled child in a bright blue snowsuit with a red fringe mohawk helmet.
“Excuse me?” I answered back, glancing at Charles to laugh, a bit perplexed.
“You’re hogging the powder,” the little snot whined. “Move it or lose it!”
I scoffed, aghast at this kid. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know this hill belonged to His Majesty.”
“Aren’t you a little old for the bunny slope?” he shot back in a nasal voice.
“Incredible,” I said to Charles. “There’s a toddler giving me the business.”
“Smell you later, old farts!” The kid blew a raspberry at us and slipped down the slope backwards while throwing up two peace signs.
“Congratulations,” Charles laughed, shaking his head. “You just met your first ski bully.”
I pulled my goggles down over my eyes and planted my poles. “I’m going to end that kid.”
With a renewed motivation to not be shown up by a first-grader, I pushed off down the slope, albeit at an extremely responsible speed. This time, my knees were more confident. My balance was sure. I opened my hips and pointed my toes straight ahead.
Yeah, French-fry mode.
I began to pick up speed. Maybe a little too much. But I hadn’t fallen yet and my size meant the other kids were staying out of my lane, so I had a clear path. It gave me perhaps an undeserved confidence. So, like I’d seen onTV, I bent my knees a little and leaned forward. Tucked my poles under my arms, and zipped right past the twerp in the bright blue suit.
Only I’d forgotten about stopping in my triumph, and suddenly was faced with another bail-out situation until I again felt the deft, steady hand of Charles at my back, tugging on the hood of my jacket to slow me to a gentle halt.
“We’ve really got to work on your braking maneuver,” he quipped.
“Yeah, but did you see how I smoked that kid?”
Charles smirked, picking an errant snowflake from my cheek. “I did. You showed him.”
“Damn right!”
After a few more turns down the bunny slope, I was feeling pretty good about myself and let Charles convince me I was ready to take it up a notch. Only I forgot that meant a ride on the ski lift. An apparatus I’d avoided my whole life, because the idea of dangling a few dozen feet over a mountain by little more than a steel cable was not my idea of dependable transportation.
“How do I do this?” I asked nervously as we waited in line for our turn.
I watched each group in front of us be scooped off their feet by the jerky, swinging chair that did not inspire a great deal of confidence.
“Just let it pick you up,” he said. “Nothing to it.”
“It won’t, like, knock me over?”
“Don’t let it knock you over.”
“Great. That’s helpful.”
As we inched closer to the front of the line, a queasy feeling rumbled in my gut.
